m 
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GIFT  OF 


. 


THE  WOOING  OF 
THE  ROSE 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 
LUCIUS  HARWOOD  FOOTE 


THEPLATT  &  PECK  CO. 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
THE  PLATT  &  PECK  CO. 


SOMETHING  more  than  the  lilt  of  the  strain, 
Something  more  than  the  touch  of  the  lute ; 

For  the  voice  of  the  minstrel  is  vain, 
If  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  mute. 


267073 


5V- 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


THE  WOOING  OF  THE  ROSE 

A  WHITE  rose  bloomed  in  a  garden  close, 

On  a  tristful  autumn  day; 
Sad  was  the  heart  of  the  fair  white  rose 

As  the  summer  slipped  away. 

She  had  been  wooed  by  the  singing  bird, 

The  bee  and  the  butterfly ; 
But  never  a  cord  of  her  heart  was  stirred, 

Till  she  heard  the  west  wind  sigh. 

She  leaned  on  the  trellis,  fair  and  sweet, 
With  the  laughing  leaves  above, 

As  he  glided  in  with  his  noiseless  feet 
And  whispered  his  tales  of  love. 

A  rollicking,  restless  rover,  he, 
The  waif  of  the  salt-sea  brine, 

And  only  a  white,  white  rose  was  she, 
The  last  of  her  royal  line. 

He  kissed  the  lips  of  the  rose  in  bloom, 

And  alas,  a-lack  a-day ! 
She  was  despoiled  of  her  rare  perfume, 

For  the  wind  will  have  its  way. 

7 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


FOUR  SCORE  YEARS  AND  TEN 

FROM  that  far  distant  goal  he  seems  to  cast 

His  patient  eyes  across  the  vanished  years ; 

Life's    turmoil,    with    its    triumphs    and    its 

tears, 

Is  now  a  part  of  that  relentless  past. 
The  eager  feet  which  erstwhile  sped  so  fast, 

Urged  ever  onward  by  his  hopes  and  fears, 
Have  reached  the  utmost  verge  of  life  at  last, 

Where  that  grim  warder   of  the  grave   ap 
pears. 

Firm  in  the  faith  that  all  is  for  the  best, 
Like  some  spent  toiler  he  would  take  his  rest. 

For  good  or  ill  his  little  work  is  done ; 
Far  from  the  silver  radiance  of  the  dawn, 
The  fervid  heat  and  flame  of  noon  are  gone; 

He  only  waits  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


8 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


CALIFORNIA 

IN  all  methinks  I  see  the  counterpart 

Of  Italy,  without  her  dower  of  art. 

We  have  the  lordly  Alps,  the  fir-fringed  hills, 

The  green  and  golden  valleys  veined  with  rills, 

A  dead  Vesuvius  with  its  smoldering  fire, 

A  tawny  Tiber  sweeping  to  the  sea. 
Our  seasons  have  the  same  superb  attire, 

The   same   redundant   wealth   of   flower   and 

tree, 
Upon  our  peaks  the  same  imperial  dyes, 

And  day  by  day,  serenely  over  all, 
The  same  successive  months  of  smiling  skies. 

Conceive  a  cross,  a  tower,  a  convent  wall, 
A  broken  column  and  a  fallen  fane, 
A  chain  of  crumbling  arches  down  the  plain 

A    group    of    brown-faced    children    by    a 

stream, 

A  scarlet-skirted  maiden  standing  near, 
A  monk,  a  beggar,  and  a  muleteer, 

And  lo!  it  is  no  longer  now  a  dream. 
These  are  the  Alps,  and  there  the  Apennines ; 

The  fertile  plains  of  Lombardy  between ; 
Beyond  Val  d'Arno  with  its  flocks  and  vines, 
These  granite  crags  are  gray  monastic  shrines 
9 


C 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Perched  on  the  cliffs  like  old  dismantled  forts ; 

And  far  to  seaward  can  be  dimly  seen 
The  marble  splendor  of  Venetian  courts; 
While    one    can    all    but    hear    the    mournful 

rhythmic  beat 

Of    white-lipped    waves    along    the    sea-paved 
street. 

O  childless  mother  of  dead  empires,  we, 
The  latest  born  of  all  the  western  lands, 
In  fancied  kinship  stretch  our  infant  hands 

Across  the  intervening  seas  to  thee. 
Thine  the  immortal  twilight,  ours  the  dawn, 

Yet  we  shall  have  our  names  to  canonize, 

Our  past  to  haunt  us  with  its  solemn  eyes, 
Our  ruins,  when  this  restless  age  is  gone. 


10 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


TYPES 

THE  new  and  the  old, 

The  dross  and  the  gold, 

The  chaff  and  the  wheat 

Commingle  and  meet 

Here,  where  the  banners  of  sunset  are  furled 

On  the  rim  of  the  world. 

New  forms  and  new  faces 

Confront  the  old  races 

And  challenge  the  scions  of  Saxon  descent. 

Such  a  wonder  to-day, 

On  the  crowded  highway, 

Flashed  on  my  sight  for  a  moment  and  went. 

Like  the  Goddess  of  Dawn, 

With  the  step  of  a  fawn, 

And  lithe  as   a  leopard,  she  passed,   and   was 

gone. 

Her  sire  is  a  Celt,  and  her  mother  was  born 
Where  the  bountiful  light  of  a  Tuscan  morn 
Falls  on  the  billows  of  ripened  corn. 
Escutcheons  are  nothing  to  her,  although 
One  ancestor  fought  under  Caesar  in  Gaul, 
And  another  went  down  by  the  bastion-wall 
When   Sidney,   at  Zutphen,   was   slain   by   the 

foe. 

11 


ff 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Though  her  marvellous  face,  with  its  halo  of 

hair, 

Is  so  hauntingly  fair, 
There's  a  smouldering  fire  which  flickers  and 

flashes 

Beneath  her  lashes, 

And  the  ghost  of  an  old  Patrician  disdain, 
Like  the  phantom  of  pain, 
Is  lurking  now 
In  the  swell  of  her   nostril  and  shade  of  her 

brow. 
In  fine, 

There  is  pride  and  passion  in  every  line, 
From  her  finger  tips 
To  the  arch  of  her  foot  and  the  curve  of  her 

lips. 
Men  have  gone  to  their  death  for  women  like 

this, 

And  counted  it  bliss. 

In  the  hush  of  her  chamber,  this  very  night, 
She  will  tell  her  beads  in  the  chastened  light, 
And  pray  to  the  Mother  of  God  to  keep 
Her  soul  in  sleep. 
Ah  me, 

Both  saint  and  sinner  is  she — 
But  who  can  tell  what  the  end  will  be? 


- 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


DON  JUAN 

DON  JUAN  has  ever  the  grand  old  air, 

As  he  greets  me  with  courtly  grace; 
Like  a  crown  of  glory  the  snow-white  hair 

That  halos  his  swarthy  face; 
And  he  says,  with  a  courtesy  rare  and  fine, 

As  he  ushers  me  in  at  the  door : 
"Panchita  mia  will  bring  us  the  wine, 

And  the  casa  is  yours,  senor." 
His  fourscore  years  have  a  tranquil  cast, 

For  Time  has  tempered  his  heart  and  hand; 
Though  the  seething  tide  of  his  blood  ran  fast 

When  he  ruled  like  a  lord  in  the  land. 
In  the  wild  rodeo  and  mad  stampede 

He  rode,  I  am  told, 

In  the  days  of  old 

With  his  brown  vaqueros  at  headlong  speed. 
From  the  Toro  Peaks  to  the  Carmel  Pass 
His  cattle  fed  on  rich,  wild  grass ; 

And  far  to  the  west 

Where  the  sand-dunes   rest 

On  the  rim  of  the  heaving  sea, 
From  the  Point  of  Pines  to  the  river's  mouth, 
From  the   Gabilan    Hills   to    the   bay   on    the 
south, 

13 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


He  held  the  land  in  fee. 

It  was  never  the  same 

When  the  Gringos  came, 
With  their  lust  of  gold  and  their  greed  of  gain ; 

And  his  humble  cot 

With  its  garden  plot 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  his  wide  domain. 
But  he  says,  with  a  courtesy  rare  and  fine, 

As  he  ushers  me  in  at  the  door: 
"Panchita  mia  will  bring  us  the  wine, 

And  the  casa  is  yours,  senor." 


14 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


A   REVERIE 

I 

TURN  back  with  me  across  the  dim  historic 

years, 
And  pass  the  portals  of  the  dark  mysterious 

door, 
Where  pale-faced  Sorrow  sits  beside  the  cairn 

in  tears ; 

Behold,  the  spectre  of  Imperial  lust  appears, 
Its  fleshless  hands  are  red  with  human  gore. 

II 

Around  this  sombre  silhouette  softly  plays 
The  mellow  lustre  of  Castilian  days. 

On  the  long,  low  swell  of  the  sleeping  sea 
At  anchor  a  galleon  swings  at  her  chain; 

On  the  strand  a  knight,  on  his  bended  knee — 
In  the  sovereign  name  of  Catholic  Spain — 

Unfurls  a  standard  loyally. 

Scarred  veterans  of  elder  lands, 
Their  banners  red  and  red  their  hands, 
File  rank  on  rank  across  the  sands. 
So  fair  a  sight  was  never  seen, 
15 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Broad  valleys  bound  in  gold  and  green, 
While  stately  rivers  sweep  between. 

Ill 

The  pageant  vanishes;  and  in  its  place 
A  band  of  friars,  in  procession,  climb 
The  consecrated  hill,  with  solemn  face, 

And  plant  the  emblem  of  their  faith  sublime. 
Where  now  they  kneel  upon  the  roofless  sod 
Anon  in  minster  walls  they  worship  God. 
Adown  the  summer  silence  I  can  hear 
The  silver  chime  of  bells  ring  sweet  and  clear ; 
I  see  the  vaulted  nave,  the  surpliced  priest, 
The  wine,  the  wafer,  and  the  solemn  feast, 
The  altar  and  the  silvern  candlesticks, 
The  carven  Christ,  the  gilded  crucifix, 
The  cups  of  beaten  gold  for  sacred  rites, 
The  smoking  censor  and  the  waxen  lights, 
The  sculptured  saints,  the  dusky  neophytes. 

IV 

Time  slowly  weaves  the  web  of  fate, 

Dynasties  rise  and  fall; 
And  surely,  soon  or  late, 

Death  comes  to  all. 

16 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Alike,  beneath  the  sable  pall, 

The  monarch  and  the  monk  lie  down. 

And  so,  his  work  of  love  and  faith  complete, 

We  see  the  good  man  calmly  meet 
The  angel  with  the  golden  crown. 

And  while,   methinks,   I   hear  their   sweet    re 
frains 

On  every  ripple  of  the  ambient  air, 
The  grass  is  growing  in  their  fallen  fanes, 

Their  silver  chimes  no  longer  call  to  prayer. 


'Tis  an  o'er  true  tale  in  the  young  New  World, 
Since  that  belted  knight  his  banner  unfurled, 
His  cross  in  the  air,  his  keel  on  the  main, 
There's  strife  on  the  sea  and  toil  on  the  plain, 
For  the   white   man's   blood   is   the   red    man's 

bane. 

Bronze  statues  of  the  mystic  past, 
I  mark  your  slowly  wasting  lines, 
Too  crude  in  civic  chains  to  last, 

For  you  no  promised  morrow  shines; 
Victims  of  lawlessness  and  lust, 
The  end  is  certain,  "dust  to  dust." 
17 


=ar 


I,  / 

ffl 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


VI 


The  years  glide  onward  with  noiseless  feet, 
And  the  mystical  seasons  wax  and  wane, 
Only  prolonged  by  the  summer's  heat, 

Only  defined  by  the  winter's  rain. 
Before  me  stretches  a  pastoral  land, 

Where  the  patriarch  pitches  his  tent  by  the 

rills  ; 

His  corn  land  and  vine  land  on  either  hand, 
And  his  flocks  and  his  herds  on  a  hundred 

hills. 
When  the  hampers  are  filled  with  the  fruit  of 

the  vine, 
And  the  sheaves  of  the  reaper  are  garnered 

in, 
Red  from  the  wine-press  flow  rivers  of  wine, 

And  the  feasts  of  the  autumn  begin. 
The   young   men    laugh   loud    at    their   festive 

games, 

And  the  old  men  rejoice  at  the  sight; 
While     the     dark-eyed     daughters     of     dark- 
browed  dames 
Sing  plaintive  songs  in  the  dusk  of  the  night. 


18 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


!^== 


O  nights  of  rest,  O  days  of  ease, 
In  this  the  Garden  of  Hesperides, 
Here  life  is  one  long  summer  day, 

A  day  that  never  reaches  noon ; 
Where  smiling  May  is  always  May, 

And  roses  bloom  from  June  to  June. 


EL  VAQUERO 

TINGED  with  the  blood  of  Aztec  lands, 
Sphinx-like,  the  tawny  herdsman  stands, 
A  coiled  reata  in  his  hands. 

Devoid  of  hope,  devoid  of  fear, 

Half  brigand,  and  half  cavalier— 
This  helot,  with  imperial  grace, 
Wears  ever  on  his  tawny  face 

A  sad,  defiant  look  of  pain. 
Left  by  the  fierce  iconoclast, 
A  living  fragment  of  the  past — 

Greek  of  the  Greeks  he  must  remain. 


19 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


DAWN   ON   MOUNT   TAMALPAIS 

A  CLOUDLESS  heaven  is  bending  o'er  us, 
The  dawn  is  lighting  the  linn  and  lea; 

Island  and  headland  and  bay  before  us, 
And  dim  in  the  distance  the  heaving  sea. 

The  Farallon  light  is  faintly  flashing 
The  birds  are  wheeling  in  fitful  flocks, 

The  coast-line  brightens,  the  waves  are  dash 
ing 
And  tossing  their  spray  on  the  Lobos  rocks. 

The  Heralds  of  morn  in  the  east  are  glowing 
And  boldly  lifting  the  veil  of  night; 

Whitney  and  Shasta  are  bravely  showing 
Their  crowns  of  snow  in  the  morning  light. 

The  town  is  stirring  with  faint  commotion, 
In  all  its  highways  it  throbs  and  thrills; 

We  greet  you !  Queen  of  the  Western  Ocean, 
As  you  wake  to  life  on  your  hundred  hills. 

The  forts  salute,  and  the  flags  are  streaming 
From  ships  at  anchor  in  cove  and  strait; 

O'er  the  mountain  tops,  in  splendor  beaming, 
The  sun  looks  down  on  the  Golden  Gate. 
9.0 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


IN  FIELDS  NOT  FAR  AWAY 

AS  I  went  down  where  grazing  herds 
Had  sought  the  sylvan  shade, 

I  caught  the  notes  of  nesting  birds 
In  all  the  leaf-lined  glade. 

I  walked  knee-deep  amid  the  bloom 
And  fragrance  born  of  Spring, 

While  flush  of  spray  and  flash  of  plume 
Illumined  wood  and  wing. 

Entranced  with  all  I  saw  and  heard, 

As  home  I  fared  elate, 
I  hummed  the  very  air  the  bird 

Was  singing  to  his  mate. 

Ah,  could  we  hear,  when  meaner  things 

Enthrall  us  day  by  day, 
The  wondrous  song  the  glad  lark  sings 

In  fields  not  far  away! 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


POINT  BONITA 

THE  foam-lines  flash,  the  wind  pipes  free, 

The  city  looms  in  sight; 
The  clouds  drift  in  across  the  lea, 
And  on  the  gray  strand  beats  the  sea, 

Intoning  day  and  night. 

No  sunlight  on  the  landscape  lies, 

No  song-birds  flit  and  sing, 
But  wild  geese  with  their  clanging  cries 
Sweep  on  athwart  the  brooding  skies, 

Like  Nomads  on  the  wing. 

Out  on  the  links  I  stroll  at  ease, 

And  there  I  watch  and  wait, 
As  on  and  off  before  the  breeze 
The  ships  beat  inward  from  the  seas 

And  pass  the  Golden  Gate. 

Around  Twin  Peaks,  above  the  town, 

The  misty  vapors  creep; 
And  Russian  Hill  looks  dimly  down 
Where  Alcatraz  and  Fort  Point  frown, 

Grim  warders  of  the  deep. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


And,  looming  up,  Lone  Mountain  lifts 

Its  cone  against  the  sky, 
And  softly  through  the  broken  rifts 
The  sunlight  for  a  moment  sifts 

And  gilds  the  cross  on  high. 

I  hear  the  call,  and  counter-call, 

Of  wild  birds  on  the  wing; 
While  bud  and  bough  are  held  in  thrall, 
Till  dark  December  lifts  its  pall 

And  ushers  in  the  spring. 

There  is  a  charm  in  Earth's  gray  shroud, 

Its  solemn  undertone; 
When  sea  and  shore  are  sobbing  loud, . 
And  tears  are  in  the  trailing  cloud, 

And  wind  and  wave  make  moan. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


IN  CALM  AND  STORM 

O  SEA !  thou  art  so  false  and  yet  so  fair ; 
Erewhile,  in  summer  silence,  thou  didst  sleep, 
And,  lazily,  thy  lapsing  waves  did  creep 
Along  the  shining  sands,  while  here  and  there 
A  toying  breath  of  soft  autumnal  air 

Dropped  down  to  kiss  and  curl  the  drowsy 

deep. 

So  like  a  tigress  lurking  in  her  lair — 
A  serpent  coiled  to  strike  me  unaware — 

For   now   thy   marching  waves-  in    rhythmic 

sweep, 
Like    white-plumed    squadrons,    charge    the 

scarped  steep, 

And  reeling  tempests  rave  and  lightnings  glare. 
O  Sea!  a  ghastly  harvest  thou  dost  reap, 

While  waiting  wives  and  mothers  watch  and 

weep, 
And  yet  thy  lovers  deem  thee  debonair. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE  DERELICT 

UNMOORED,    unmanned,    unheeded    on    the 

deep, 

Tossed  by  the  restless  billow  and  the  breeze, 
It  drifts  o'er  sultry  leagues  of  tropic  seas 

Where  long  Pacific  surges  swell  and  sweep. 

When  pale-faced  stars  their  silent  watches  keep, 
From     their     far     rhythmic     spheres,     the 

Pleiades, 
In  calm  beatitude  and  tranquil  ease, 

Smile  sweetly  down  upon  its  cradled  sleep. 

Erewhile,    with    anchor    housed    and    sails    un 
furled, 

We  saw  the  stout  ship  breast  the  open  main 
To  round  the  Stormy  Cape  and  span  the  world, 

In  search  of  ventures  which  betoken  gain. 
To-day,  somewhere,  on  some  far  sea,  we  know 
Her  battered  hulk  is  heaving  to  and  fro. 


M 

7^1^^  y 

f        1 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


THE   MUSE  OF  ROMANCE 

YOU   are   known,   I   believe,    as    a   man   about 

town; 
If  you  go   as   you   ought  to  the   Bas   Bleu 

soiree 

You  will  meet  Mrs.  D.  in  a  chic  Paris  gown; 
She  will  chat,  as  she  toys  with  her  fan  and 

bouquet, 
Of    the    lyrics,    and    lays    of    Mistral    and 

Daudet, 

And  will  even  repeat,  sub  rosa,  perchance, 
The    refrain    of    Gringoire    with    an    accent 

Anglais, 

For  the  fad  of  the  hour  is   che  Muse  of  Ro 
mance. 

You    will    doubtless   encounter   a    stare    and    a 

frown 
From  a  prig  who  pretends   to  be  wise  and 

au  fait; 
For  the  "Set"  will  insist  you  should  know  Mr. 

Brown, 

But  the  Lord  knows  who  Brown  is,  I  don't, 
nor  do  they, 


26 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Though  his  father  made  money  in  "Ophir," 

they  say ; 

He's  Sir  Oracle  now,  you  will  see  at  a  glance, 
And  has   written   a   double   ballade,   by   the 

way, 

For  the  fad  of  the  hour  is  the  Muse  of  Ro 
mance. 


As  for  me,  give  me  rather  the  heath  and  the 

down, 

The  glory  of  Autumn,  the  freshness  of  May, 
The  bold  mountain  peak  with  its  white-crested 

crown, 
The  hiss  of  the  squall  and  the  flash  of  the 

spray ; 

A  fig  for  the  fustian  of  frill  and  of  fray, 
The    knight   and   the    lady,   the    tilt    and    the 

dance, 

The  gay  cavalcade  and  the  stately  array, 
Though  the  fad  of  the  hour  is  the  Muse  of  Ro 
mance. 

ENVOY 

Ho,  Villon!  you  conjured  the  rhymes  in  your 
day, 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


Like  a  bold  troubador  and  a  gallant  free 
lance, 
But  your  ghost  is  disturbed  and  the  devil's  to 

pay, 

For  the  fad  of  the  hour  is  the  Muse  of  Ro 
mance. 


WAITING 

I  HEAR  his  footstep  on  the  stair, 

My  heart  responds  with  quickened  beat, 

As  to  my  ear  the  sound-waves  bear 
The  eager  accent  of  his  feet. 

O  heart !  my  heart,  canst  thou  gainsay 
The  hope  that  echoes  in  his  tread? 

He  comes  to  woo  and  win  to-day, 
To-morrow  he  may  come  to  wed. 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


VIGNETTES 

I 

I  HAVE '  somewhere  the  sketch  of  a  cottage 
home, 

With  the  sunlight  flooding  the  humble  room ; 
While  the  south  wind  tosses  the  mottled  foam 

Of  the  orchard  boughs  in  their  bloom. 

Under  trailing  roses  a  maiden  stands, 
Demurely  sweet  in  her  simple  guise; 

A  quiet  grace  in  her  folded  hands 
And  a  world  of  faith  in  her  eyes. 

She  dreams  the  dear  dreams  of  youth  and  of 

hope, 
Of  a  knight  who   is   coming  from  over  the 

sea — 

Of  a  fairy  castle  on  wooded  slope, 
Of  the  lover  that  is  to  be. 

II 

With  suitors  in  waiting  on  either  hand, 
A  proud  dame  watches  the  tide  as  it  flows. 

Minerva  in  marble  is  not  more  grand 
Than  is  she  in  her  cool  repose. 
29 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Her  make-up,  a  marvel  of  pink  and  of  pearl, 
Self-poised,     she     turns     in     her     conscious 
grace — 

From  the  braided  coils  of  her  hair  a  curl 
Falls  over  the  billows  of  lace. 

Or  she  sits  at  her  ease  and  calmly  smiles — 
Her  lord  has  been  dead  for  a  year  and  a 

day- 
Weaving  the  web  of  her  well-bred  wiles 
In  a  nonchalant,  listless  way. 

ENVOY 

Time  is  a  worker  of  wonders ;  I  knew 

Both  the  artless  maid  and  the  stately  dame ; 

And  strange  indeed,  as  it  seems  the  two 
Were  verily  one  and  the  same. 


30 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


GUIDO 

I  KNOW  you  are  fair, 

But  what  do  I  care 

For  the  lustre  of  eyes 

And  the  ripple  of  hair. 

The  earth  is  forlorn,  and  the  heavens  are  lead ; 

Since  under  the  arch  of  the  pitiless  skies, 

Guido,  brave  Guido,  my  brother,  lies  dead. 

Together  we  three, 

That  is,  Guido  and  I, 

And  the  mother  who  bore  us, 

Lived  in  a  cottage  that  looks  on  the  sea ; 

The    mountains    behind,    and    the    glad    waves 
before  us, 

And  over  us  ever  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

We  breasted  the  deep  in  the  gray  of  the  morn 
ing, 

And  mended  our  nets  at  the  ebb  of  the  tide ; 

And  we  laughed, 

And  we  chaffed, 

At  the  fond  mother's  warning, 

Who   could  not  forget   how  our  good  father 
died. 

Thus  peacefully  speeded 

The  seasons  unheeded, 
31 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Till  rumors  were  rife 

Of  the  roar  of  the  battle  and  din  of  the  strife ; 

There  was   call   for  the  lovers   of   country   to 

come, 

And  Guido  grew  restless,  I  knew  what  it  meant, 
He  was  life  of  my  life,  and  together  we  went ; 
Oh!  her  eyes  were  so  dry  and  her  lips  were  so 

dumb, 

As  we  marched  away, 
At  the  break  of  day, 
To  the  blare  of  the  trumpet,  and  beat  of  the 

drum. 

It  was  grand  to  rally  for  freedom  and  God; 
But,  oh  the  ruin,  and  oh  the  cost ; 
We  conquered  the  foe,  but  the  battle  is  lost, 
Since  Guido,  dear  Guido,  lies  under  the  sod. 
The  red  lights   flash   forth   from  the  red-tiled 

town, 

And  the  brazen  tongues  of  the  bells  ring  out, 
And  the  men  and  women  go  up  and  down, 
And  meet  us, 
And  greet  us, 
With  cheer  and  shout; 

But  a  mother  stands  watching  beside  the  door, 
While   the   spent   waves   moan    on   the   shingly 

shore. 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


FLORENCE 

ENAMORED  of  thy  beauty,  I  am  here, 
To  find  thee  robed  in  color  everywhere; 
Spring,  with  her  garlands  woven   fresh  and 
fair, 

Crowns  thee  with  youth  eternal,  year  by  year. 

From  out  thy  Campanile  the  bells  ring  clear, 
And  round  about  Duomo's  marble  stair 
Thy  careless  children,  gay  and  debonair, 

Make  light  of  toil,  with  jocund  laugh  and  jeer. 

Across  the  years  I  scan  thy  stormy  past 

And  mark  thy  dauntless  stand  against  con 
trol 

With  Guelph  and  Ghibeline  in  fierce  array. 
And  though  enthralled  at  times,  by  creed  and 

cast, 
What  deathless  names  are  on  thy  blazoned 

scroll, 

While  Art,  triumphant,  holds  its  tranquil 
sway. 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


EL  SALVADOR 

A  CRESCENT  bay,  and  crested  peaks  on  high, 
With  wooded  flanks  which  seaward  slope  be 
tween, 
Embossed   with    fold    on    fold    of    deathless 

green, 
And  over  all  an  arch  of  turquoise  sky. 

Thus  I  recall,  with  half -regretful  sigh, 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  that  exotic  scene ; 

Its  wealth  of  tint  and  tone,  its  airs  serene, 

Which  erstwhile  charmed  my  wistful  ear   and 

eye. 

A  dreamy  land  of  indolence  and  ease, 
With   budding  boughs   and  vines   and   fruitful 

trees, 
Where  birds  on  gold  and  scarlet  wings  flash 

by; 

Beside  a  reed-thatched  hut  nude  children  play, 
While  to  and  fro  the  palm  trees  idly  sway, 
And  spent  waves  swoon  upon  the  shore  and 
die. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


WHEN   RICHARD   LOVELACE   CAM* 
TO  WOO 

THE  feet  of  time  make  fast  apace, 

And  we,  like  players  in  a  play, 
Strut  up  and  down  our  little  space, 

And  act  our  parts  as  best  we  may ; 
Alas  !  Alack !  and  well-a-day ! 

The  stage  is  dight  in  sombre  hue, 
Where  once  that  stately  vogue  held  sway, 

When  Richard  Lovelace  came  to  woo. 

And  much  we  marvel  as  we  trace 

The  feuds  and  foibles  passed  away; 
While  pomp  of  power  and  pride  of  place 

Troop  down  the  years  in  grand  array. 
In  court  and  camp,  in  fete  and  fray, 

Fickle  and  flippant,  staunch  and  true, 
Such  were  the  gallants,  bold  and  gay, 

When  Richard  Lovelace  came  to  woo. 

In  doublet  fine  and  frills  of  lace, 
The  lover  sought  his  suit  to  pay; 

With  such  a  form  and  such  a  face, 
Who  could  resist  his  plea,  I  pray? 


1 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  then  that  tender  roundelay, 

So  like  a  wood-dove's  plaintive  coo, 

Sweet  Lucy  could  not  say  him  nay, 
When  Richard  Lovelace  came  to  woo. 

ENVOY 

HO,  Kentish  Towers !  your  lordly  race 
Had  swords  to  draw,  and  deeds  to  do, 

In  that  eventful  Year  of  Grace, 

When  Richard  Lovelace  came  to  woo. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

5^V-«  -«-«~n.  M.n-iP^^^V-T-1-     ..IL  — .-— — «-»,• 

0  SLY  BO-PEEP 

0  SLY  Bo-Peep !  behind  a  chair, 

1  catch  a  glimpse  of  tangled  hair, 

And  laughing  eyes  and  dimpled  cheek ; 
Then  comes  a  challenge,  faint  and  weak, 
As  if  to  lure  me  to  thy  lair. 

With  loud  pretense,  I  wonder  where, 
Behind  what  door,  upon  what  stair, 

And  hear,  when  found,  thy  joyous  shriek; 
O  sly  Bo-Peep ! 

In  after  years,  grown  passing  fair, 
When  hearts,  perchance,  are  in  the  snare, 
Pray  tell  what  games  of  "hide  and  seek" 
Wilt  thou  provoke  in  pet  or  pique, 
Until  Love  comes  to  find  thee  there? 
O  sly  Bo-Peep ! 


37 


THE   WOOING   OF   THE   ROSE 


JEAN 

A  WEE  sma'  sprite  wi'  dainty  airs, 

Adown  the  garden  goes ; 
Her  een  are  like  twa  twinklin'  stars, 

Her  lips  are  like  the  rose. 

She  lures  us  wi'  a  roguish  beck, 

She  wiles  us  wi'  a  ca', 
An'  when  we  heed,  she  cranes  her  neck, 

Then  hies  hersel'  awa' 

We  hear  her  tunefu'  laughter  trill, 

She  dances  doun  the  lawn, 
Her  voice  is  like  the  ripplin'  rill, 

Her  footfa'  like  the  fawn. 

May  ye,  sae  winsome  an'  sae  fair, 

In  a'  the  years  that  pass, 
Na  feel  the  blight  o'  cark  an'  care, 

My  bonnie,  bonnie  lass. 


:£W> 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


TO  AN  OLD  COPY  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

YOUR  dog-eared  leaves  are  dark  with  age, 

Your  covers  dull  and  dusty, 
And  as  I  turn  the  time-worn  page 

I  catch  an  odor  musty. 
Upon  your  imprint  I  would  trace, 

Despite  the  blots  in  plenty, 
The  printer's  name,  the  year  of  grace — 

'Tis  A.  D.  something,  'XX. 

Some  Grub-street  bookman  brought  you  out, 

His  name,  it  does  not  matter; 
We  trust,  if  Parker,  Blount  or  Stout, 

His  pocket  waxed  the  fatter. 
You  seem  to  smack  of  London  Town, 

The  Tavern  in  the  City, 
Where  rare  Ben  Jonson  sat  him  down 

To  converse  wise  and  witty. 

Were  you  ensconced  in  some  sly  nook 

Of  box,  or  bag,  or  basket? 
Or  kept  you  watch  and  ward,  O  book! 

Within  the  prompter's  casket, 


39 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


When  Burbage  mouthed  Othello's  rage 
And  made  Blackfriars  thunder, 

When   Lowin  stormed  across  the  stage 
With  stalk  and  strut,  I  wonder? 

God  wot  it  was  a  goodly  play 

When  lackeys  were  berating 
My  Lady's  chair  that  blocked  the  way, 

While  rank  and  fame  were  waiting. 
Ah  me,  the  days  of  Good  Queen  Bess, 

The  days  of  famous  writers, 
Of  frills  and  stays  and  stilted  dress, 

Of  gallant  fops  and  fighters. 

You  conjure  up  a  fruitful  past, 

Albeit  fact  or  fable; 
The  old-time  Worthies  in  the  cast, 

The  Master  on  my  table. 
Across  the  wire  a  call  is  made 

And  I  respond  instanter ; 
The  ghosts  are  laid,  the  visions  fade, 

0  tempora  mutantur ! 


40 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


PAX  VOBISCUM 

WHEN   the   bells    are   ringing    at    Christmas- 
tide 

For  the  Crucified  Son  of  Man, 
I  think  of  the  martyred  souls  that  have  died 

Since  ever  the  world  began. 

The  men  of  a  cause,  the  men  of  a  creed, 

The  men  of  the  sword  and  pen, 
Who,  with  dauntless  courage  in  word  and  deed, 

Have  died  for  their  fellow-men. 

When  the  battle  was  waged  for  cross  or  crown, 
They  struck  for  God  and  the  right; 

And  some  at  the  scaffold  or  stake  went  down, 
And  some  in  the  stormy  fight. 

Their  blood  may   have  sprinkled  the  senseless 
clod, 

Their  dust  on  the  winds  be  strown ; 
But  the  hero-soul  is  the  soul  of  God, 

And  ever  He  knows  His  own. 

Thus  onward  and  upward  the  trend  will  be, 
Till  we  find  the  blameless  way ; 
41 


men 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


In  the  fullness  of  time  we  yet  may  see 
The  dawn  of  a  perfect  day. 

All  hail !  and  farewell  to  our  Worthies  then, 

On  the  far  Plutonian  shore, 
And  peace   and   good-will   to   the   Children   of 


Forever  and  evermore. 


THE    HUMMING-BIRD 

IN  gold,  and  green,  and  purple  sheen. 
A  winged  meteor  is  seen. 
With  sharp,  prismatic  flash  of  light 
It  shoots  athwart  the  startled  sight ; 
Plays  on  the  lilac's  purple  bloom 
With  drone  of  wing  and  glint  of  plume ; 
Then  on  the  calyx  of  the  rose 
An  emerald  gleams,  a  ruby  glows ; 
A  moment  here,  a  moment  there, 
A  moment  poises  in  the  air; 
And  then,  across  the  open  space, 
The  gem  incarnate  darts  apace. 


42 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

. 


OFF  CAPE  ST.  LUCAS 

WHEN  summer  seas  are  tranquil 
And  summer  skies  aglow, 

Our  trim  yacht  in  the  offing 
Rocks  idly  to  and  fro. 

But  when  the  cloud- rack  gathers, 

Our  skipper  looks  alee, 
Hauls  taut  the  weather-braces 

And  seeks  the  open  sea. 

He  knows  the  hidden  danger 
That  lurks  along  the  shore ; 

He  sees  the  foam-lines  flashing 
And  hears  the  breakers  roar. 

Forewarned  by  cloud  and  spindrift, 
Ho  Skipper !  staunch  and  true, 

In  God  and  stars  confiding, 
We  sail  the  seas  with  you. 


THE    WOOING    OP    THE    ROSE 


SAN  CARLOS 

ITS  arches  laid  in  the  long  ago, 
When  the  Mission  Fathers  came, 

With  its  towers  above  and  nave  below — 
San  Carlos  of  sacred  fame. 

They  set  their  feet  on  the  wave-worn  strand, 
With  words  of  peace  and  good-will, 

And  saw  before  them  a  goodly  land 
Of  valley  and  wooded  hill. 

There  were  pink  and  purple  peaks  outlined 

Against  the  blue  of  the  sky ; 
All  months  were  May,  and  ever  the  wind 

On  its  velvet  wings  went  by. 

With  holy  zeal,  on  the  heights  above, 
They  reared  these  walls  on  the  sward, 

Crowned  with  the  emblem  of  faith  and  love — 
The  cross  of  our  Sovereign  Lord. 

But  faith  and  love  were  of  small  avail 

In  the  quest  that  was  to  be, 
With  eager  feet  on  the  landward  trail 

And  full-blown  sails  on  the  sea. 
44 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


To  that  house  not  made  with  hands  on  high 
They  have  passed  forevermore; 

The  winds  through  the  broken  arches  sigh, 
The  ebb-tide  moans  on  the  shore. 

Where  the  Padre  Serra  knelt,  a  glow 

On  the  silent  chancel  falls ; 
And  there  in  his  crypt  he  sleeps  below 

The  rift  in  the  ruined  walls. 


UNANSWERED  QUESTIONS 

WHEN  in  the  eyes  of  my  dumb  friend  I  gaze — 
My  faithful  dog,  his  head  upon  my  knee — 
A  fixed  and  fond  solicitude  betrays 
The  premonition  of  a  devotee. 
'Tis  then  the  haunting  question  I  propound — 
A  question  asked,  but  never  answered  yet — 
Does  that  rare  insight  reach  beyond  the  bound 
Where  those  who  die  forsake  us  and  forget? 
He  might  reveal  the  secret  if  he  dare, 
And  give  the  fateful  answer  which  I  seek, 
Of  life  before  and  after,  whence  and  where, 
Alas !  God  made  him  dumb,  he  cannot  speak. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


TO  THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

ALL  hail  to  Thee,  Force  of  the  Forces ! 
Tho  pulse  of  atomic  vibration, 

The  germ  of  conception  and  being, 
The  impulse  of  matter  and  mind. 
Thine,  Thine,  are  the  infinite  sources, 
A  function  of  endless  duration, 
The  rythm  of  sound  and  of  seeing, 
The  soul  of  the  soul  of  mankind. 

The  myths  of  the  centuries  hoary, 
As  told  by  the  seers  and  the  sages, 
Awaken  a  smile  of  derision 

At  the  faiths  and  the  fables  of  yore. 
We  question  the  stars,  and  their  story, 
Proclaimed  by  the  audible  ages, 
Reveals  to  our  wondering  vision 
The  past  and  its  mystical  lore. 

Thou,  thou  art  the  motive  and  motion, 
The  Life  and  the  Life  Everlasting, 

Which  thrills  and  pervades  and  possesses 
Each  atom  in  limitless  space. 


46 


::==L.  -ZZZZSjgjjpZ  ,„.  ,          T  ,<^Q 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Men  pay  Thee  a  form  of  devotion, 
With  sacrifice,  penance,  and  fasting, 
To  solace  the  soul  that  transgresses, 
For  thus  saith  the  Gospel  of  Grace, 

Uncompassed  of  time  and  location, 
Fulfilled  of  desire  and  endeavor, 
The  soul  finds  its  final  fruition, 

Dismantled  of  flesh  and  its  thrall. 
We  pass  from  the  stress  of  probation, 
To  peace  that  endureth  forever ; 

For  death  is  not  death  but  transition ; 
And  Thou  art  the  All  and  in  All. 


rt 

._ 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

612£kiz^rT~=r-^^ 

MY  ORIENT 

SPELL-BOUND  beside  the  languid  stream, 

Breathing  the  lotus  balms, 
I  lie  amid  the  ferns  and  dream 

Of  Oriental  palms. 

Where  now,  with  most  ungainly  strides, 

The  lazy  heron  feeds, 
Methinks  the  sacred  ibis  hides 

Among  the  river  reeds. 

The  sunbeam's  golden  arrows  fall 

About  me  in  the  grass ; 
I  hear  the  midges'  bugle-call 

To  combat,  as  they  pass. 

I  see  the  emmets'  pyramid, 

And  watch  their  caravans, 
Like  camels  on  the  march'amid 

Sahara's  desert  sands. 

One  horseman  dashes  o'er  the  plain, 

One  stands  beside  the  gate; 
Al  Hassan  seeks  the  camel  train, 

While  Mahmoud  lies  in  wait. 
48 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


An  aged  sheik,  with  wrinkled  brows, 

Sits  in  the  evening  sun, 
And  gathers  dates  from  oaken  boughs, 

As  I  perhaps  have  done. 

The  silent  twilight  hour  draws  near, 
The  crescent  gleams  in  air, 

And  I,  expectant,  wait  to  hear 
Muezzin's  call  to  prayer. 


THE  HUNGRY  HEART 

ABOU  HARIRI — world  renowned— 
Tells  how  a  starving  Arab  found 
A  diamond  lying  on  the  ground. 

"Oh,  if  this  shining  stone  instead 
Were  but  a  single  date,"  he  said, 
"A  cruse  of  oil,  a  crust  of  bread." 

The  rarest  jewels  of  the  mine 
Upon  the  heaving  breast  may  shine, 
And  yet  the  hungry  heart  will  pine. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


ART  ETERNAL 

WHAT  marvels,  wrought  in  tint  and  tone, 
The  Master's  fruitful  hand  hath  told 

On  frescoed  nave  and  carven  stone, 
Where  "Hail  the  Victor"  rang  of  old, 
When  proud  triumphal  chariots  rolled 

Along  the  far-famed  Appian  way, 

Now  peasants  mind  the  field  and  fold, 

While  Art,  eternal,  holds  its  sway. 

The  world  a  stage,  from  zone  to  zone, 

The  mimic  kings  and  queens  have  strolled, 

With  laugh  and  jest  and  sigh  and  moan; 
Their  words  of  fire  are  fierce  and  bold, 
Their  words  of  scorn  are  calm  and  cold, 

Or  light  or  tender,  sad  or  gay, 
They  turn  their  tinsel  into  gold, 

While  Art,  eternal,  holds  its  sway. 

Strange  airs,  from  Delphian  slopes,  are  blown, 
Since  erst  the  winged  horse  was  foaled; 

Across  the  years  the  spell  is  thrown, 
And  fast  within  our  hearts  we  hold 


50 


(A 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


A  wealth  no  miser's  hand  hath  doled ; 
The  king,  by  grace  of  God,  to-day 

May  die  and  lie  beneath  the  mould, 
While  Art,  eternal,  holds  its  sway. 

ENVOY 

O  fair-haired  Goddess !  silver  stoled, 

We  dance  in  dreams  with  Faun  and  Fay, 

And  pipe  with  Pan  adown  the  wold, 
While  Art,  eternal,  holds  its  sway. 


51 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


WHO  KNOWS? 

CONFRONTED   from  within  and  from  with 
out 

By  vague,  uncertain  questions  that  arise ; 
Condemned  if  only  we  presume  to  doubt 

The  dogmatists  whom  mortals  canonize. 

Must  we  without  complaint,  deceived,  undone, 
Cold-eyed  and  calm,  accept  the  cruel  fate 

Which  robs  us  of  our  treasures  one  by  one 
And  still  unsated  leaves  us  desolate? 

Must  we  conceal  our  motives  from  the  world, 
And  sacrifice  our  candor  to  our  fears? 

And  while  the  heart   is   crushed   must   lips   be 

curled, 
A  frozen  sneer  above  a  sea  of  tears? 

Must  face  and  voice — by  subtle  sense  or  sight, 
Which   we    have    somewhere    seen    or    heard 

before — 
With  strange  perverseness  haunt  us   day  and 

night, 
The  fabled  skeleton  behind  the  door? 


Prometheus-like,  must  we  with  hopeless  sighs, 
Chained  and  dejected,  pace  the  weary  round, 

Seeking  with  hungered  hearts  and  eager  eyes 
The    something   longed    for   and    yet   never 
found  ? 

Will  no  fruition  come  with  calm  repose 

When  death  rings  down  the  curtain  to  the 

play  ? 

By  His  harmonious  law  and  love — who  knows  ? 
Perchance  the  problem  may  be  solved  some 
day. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


THE  ICEBERG 

LO !  on  our  weather  bow  there  seems  to  be 
A   spectral    ship   which   gives   no    answering 

hail; 
Its    stealthy    presence    makes    the    stoutest 

quail ; 

And  as  we  reach  to  windward  fast  and  free, 
We  leave  the  floating  phantom, on  our  lee, 
To  drift  from  zone  to  zone  without  avail, 
The  toy  of  tossing  tide  and  driving  gale — 
A  white-robed  spectre  on  the  wide,  wide  sea. 

High  o'er  the  frozen  bulwark  flies  the  spray, 
And    through    the    mist    a    shaft    of    sunlight 

streams ; 

Amid  the  ghostly  shrouds  the  rainbows  play, 
And     all     the     frosted     fretwork     glints     and 

gleams — 

Drift  on  to  be  dissolved,  and  then  to  rise 
Type  of  the  soul  that  dies,  and  never  dies. 


¥ 

>i 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


SUTTER'S  FORT 

I  STOOD  by  the  old  fort's  crumbling  wall, 
On  the  eastern  verge  of  the  town ; 

The  sun  through  clefts  in  the  ruined  hall 
Flecked  with  its  light  the  rafters  brown. 

And,  sifting  with  gold  the  oaken  floor, 
Seemed  to  burnish  the  place  anew ; 

While    out    and    in,    through    the    half-closed 

door, 
Building  their  nests,  the  swallows  flew. 

Charmed  by  the  magic  spell  of  the  place, 
The  present  vanished,  the  past  returned ; 

While  rampart  and  fortress  filled  the  space 
And  yonder  the  Indian  camp-fires  burned. 

I  heard  the  sentinel's  measured  tread, 

The  challenge  prompt,  the  quick  reply; 

I  saw  on  the  tower,  above  my  head, 
The  Mexican  banner  flaunt  the  sky. 

Around  me  were  waifs  from  every  clime, 
Blown  by  the  fickle  winds  of  chance ; 

56 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

= 


Knights-errant,  ready  at  any  time, 
For  any  cause,  to  couch  a  lance. 

The  staunch  old  captain,  with  courtly  grace, 
Owner  of  countless  leagues  of  land, 

Benignly  governs  the  motley  race, 
Dispensing  favors  with  open  hand. 

His  long-horned  herds  on  the  wild  oats  feed, 
While  brown  vaqueros,  with  careless  rein, 

Swinging  reatas,  at  headlong  speed 
Are  dashing  madly  over  the  plain. 

Only  a  moment  the  vision  came; 

Where  tower  and  rampart  stood  before, 
Where  flushed  the  night  with  the  camp's   red 
flame, 

Dust  and  ashes  and  nothing  more. 

Borne  to  my  ear  on  the  ambient  air, 
Mingled  with  sounds  of  childish  glee, 

I  heard  again  the  low  hum  of  care, 
Like  the  restless  moan  of  the  sea. 


56 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

___ 


EL  RIO  SACRAMENTO 

WHERE  ice-clad  summits  greet  the  morn, 
And  where  the  beetling  crags  look  down 
On  dark  blue  lakes  with  sullen  frown, 
This  bantling  of  the  clouds  is  born. 
Forth  from  its  granite  cradle  creeps, 
At  first  in  play  it  laughs  and  leaps 
And  then  in  dusky  pools  it  sleeps. 
Down  silent  sunless  glens  it  glides 
And  under  long  sedge  grasses  hides, 
Where  aspen  leaves,  like  quivering  wings, 
Quaver  above  its  hidden  springs. 

Anon,  in  silver-sheeted  falls, 

It  leaps  the  terraced  mountain  walls 

And  tumbles  into  rocky  urns, 

Beflecked  with  foam  and  fringed  with  ferns. 

At  last  this  half-grown  infant,  fed 

By  melting  snow  and  falling  rain, 

Like  Bruin  chafing  with  his  chain,   ' 

Growls  hoarsely  in  its  granite  bed 

And  ploughs  its  pathway  to  the  plain. 

Meanwhile,  by  some  designing  will 

Harnessed  and  schooled,  it  turns  the  mill. 


57 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  with  its  ponderous  sledge  unlocks 
The  concrete  coffers  of  the  rocks. 

In  middle  summer,  lank  and  lean, 
It  creeps  the  shelving  banks  between ; 
And  then,  in  spring  and  autumn  tide, 
Crimson  with  carnage,  flushed  with  pride, 
In  serried  ranks  of  gleaming  pikes, 
It  dashes  on  the  yielding  dikes 
And  breaks  the  ramparts,  rushing  down 
Upon  defenseless  farm  and  town. 


In  tamer  moods  content  to  hold, 


By  croft  and  thorp,  by  field  and  fold, 


Past  orchard  boughs  and  bending  grain, 
Past  grazing  herds  and  loaded  wain, 
Past  children  laughing  at  their  play, 
The  devious  tenor  of  its  way. 

In  ceaseless,  silent  sweep,  between 
Low-lying  meadows,  rank  and  green, 
Along  the  marge  of  bastioned  banks, 
Its  dimpled  face  reflects  the  ranks 
Of  gray-beard  oaks ;  its  liquid  kiss 
Thrills  all  the  river  reeds  with  bliss ; 


58 


i/1 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  thirsty  fibrils  of  the  vine 
Reach  down  to  quaff  its  amber  wine ; 
The  grasses  and  the  willows  lave 
Their  tangled  tresses  in  its  wave. 
The  silver  thread  has  grown  to  be 
A  molten  avalanche  set  free. 
Its  path  the  highway  of  the  world, 
Where  sails  of  commerce  are  unfurled. 
Emblem  of  Time's  resistless  tide 
On,  and  still  on,  its  currents  glide, 
Until,  at  length,  far,  far  below 
It  weds  the  sea  with  stately  flow. 


59 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

J 


TO  SIR  HENRY  IRVING 

. 
(Read   at    a   dinner    given   to    Mr.    Irving  by 

the  Bohemian  Club,  San  Francisco, 
September  10,  1893.) 

IN  this  our  realm,  heart  speaks  to  heart ;  and 
here, 

Upon  the  utmost  verge  of  western  lands, 

With  honest  Saxon  speech  and  cordial  hands, 
We  give  you  greeting  hearty  and  sincere. 

You  touch  the  zenith  in  your  wondrous  role ; 
We  hear  again  the  voice  of  that  grand  age 

When  Avon's  Bard  unmasked  the  very  soul 
And  left  its  secrets  on  his  deathless  page. 

No  narrow  ties  entrammel  us,  but  we 
Hail  him  as  Master  who  takes  foremost  part 
In  the  wide  world  of  letters  and  of  art. 

To  that  historic  land  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  hawthorn  hedges  bloom  and  daisies  blow, 
Our  hearts  and  hopes  go  with  you  when  you  go. 


60 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


CON  AMORE— CON  DOLORE 
1872  1896 

I  MIND  me  of  that  long-gone  year, 
When  stout  Jo  Tilden  planned  the  cheer 

And  Chismore  wrote  the  clever  verses; 
We  sat  and  hatched  our  quibbles  queer, 
And  Parker  brought  us  pots  of  beer, 

If  we  had  shekels  in  our  purses. 

I  see  them  in  the  waning  lights, 
The  frantic  Barbour  in  his  tights, 

And  Beard,  the  grangers'  friend  and  brother ; 
And  Hawes,  who  made  such  valiant  fights 
On  voting  days  and  tilting  nights, 

Just  now  coquetting  with  another. 

And  Clay  and  Caspar,  Jack  and  John, 
And  Frank  and  Ned,  and  Will  and  Juan, 

And  genial  Clint,  the  would-be  punster ; 
And  George,  but  more  of  him  anon ; 
The  Count,  the  Baron,  and  the  Don, 

And  Royal  Dan  the  King  of  Munster. 

Still  Doctor  Behr's  rare  wit  I  hear, 
See  Tommy  Newcomb's  smiling  sneer, 


61 


_2*^--.  -  •^lay. 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  bold  Smith  Clark  and  Major  Bender ; 
Cremony's  grim,  sardonic  leer, 
Half  brigand  and  half  cavalier, 

And  yet  his  heart  was  soft  and  tender. 

We  have  our  lares  in  the  hall, 
Our  pictured  Saints  upon  the  wall, 

Our  outward  comforts  and  our  inner; 
There's  John  and  Peter,  James  and  Paul, 
And  Jo,  who  is  no  Saint  at  all, 

But  such  a  cool,  delightful  sinner. 

A  would-be  monk  in  gabardine — 
Charles  Warren  is  his  name,  I  ween — 

His  "South  Sea  Idyls"  has  forsaken ; 
And  dear  Prince  Hal,  with  courtly  mien, 
A  pair  of  demoiselles  between, 

Is  overmatched,  or  I'm  mistaken. 

There's  Captain  Jim,  we  call  him  pere, 
As  staunch  and  true  as  Legadare, 

For  words  of  praise  he  would  not  thank  me ; 
Our  shelves  speak  louder  than  I  dare, 
I  hope  with  him  one  day  to  share 

That  heaven  where  he  will  outrank  me. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Lo,  Uncle  George,  with  face  benign, 
As  mellow  as  Falernian  wine 

And  sparkling  as  the  widow  Cliquot ; 
Long  may  we  hear  that  voice  of  thine, 
As  in  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne, 

Long  life  to  thee,  my  old  amigo. 

Ho  youngsters,  cease  your  rant  and  roar, 
The  roll  is  being  called  once  more, 

We  mark  the  missing  con  dolore ; 
The  dead  outcount  us  by  a  score, 
The  best,  perhaps,  have  gone  before ; 

"Lord  love  us,"  was  our  toast  of  yore, 
And  thus  we  pledge  you,  con  amore. 


63 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


DREYFUS 

YES,  send  the  victim  to  his  living  death ; 

For  thus,  to  glut  your  hate,  the  martyr  dies. 
The  world  has  watched  the  farce  with  bated 
breath, 

And  baffled  Justice  hides  her  sightless  eyes. 

Are  you  the  sons  of  sires  who  scaled  the  height 
Of  Saint  Bernard  when  tempests  raved  and 
reeled, 

And  bore  your  Eagles  in  the  fiery  fight 
When  Desaix  died  upon  Marengo's  field? 

Hushed  is  the  echo  of  their  battle-tramp. 

Hang    up    your    father's    rusted    sword    and 

lance ! 
Sound  not  the  Marseillaise  in  field  and  camp ! 

The  Sun  of  Austerlitz  has  set  for  France. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


"PEACE  BE  WITH  YOU" 

UPEACE  be  with  you !"    Where  is  there  peace, 
I  cry, 

And  where  can  freedom  find  a  safe  retreat? 
In  storm  and  strife  one  century  goes  by, 

Another  comes  with  gory  hands  and  feet. 

The  Prince  of  Peace  again  is  crucified, 

For  Justice  from  her  high  estate  is  hurled ; 

The  ancient  metes  and  bounds  are  thrust  aside 
By    Caesars    who    would   have   and    hold    the 
world. 

The  hosts  go  forth  as  in  the  days  of  Saul, 
And  Gog  and  Magog  gather  for  the  fight; 

And  lo !  the  Celt,  the  Saxon  and  the  Gaul 
Divide  His  raiment  with  the  Muscovite. 

The  Mongol  hordes  are  on  the  march  once  more, 
Their    Dragon    banners    flaunt    the    eastern 
sky; 

From  Manchu  battlements  we  hear  the  roar, 
And  faint  and  far  the  Macedonian  cry. 


65 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


"Vengeance  is  mine,"  He  saith ;  "I  will  repay." 
What  He  hath  promised  that  will  He  per 
form; 

And  if,  unmindful  of  His  sovran  sway, 

We   sow   the   whirlwind,   we   shall   reap   the 

storm. 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

SEE,  where  the  tortuous  torrent  glides, 
Amid  the  leaves  a  pansy  hides. 
I  stoop  to  pluck  it  there, 
And  lo,  it  swings, 
On  living  wings, 
Above  me  in  the  air. 
Alas !  this  oriental  bloom 
Is  but  the  pretense  of  perfume — 
A  moth  tricked  out  for  masquerade, 
In  gold  and  purple  robes  arrayed. 
A  chrysalis  would  be  a  flower, 
And  breaks  its  filmy  thralls ; 
Then  on  its  flaunting  wings  it  flies 
One  little  hour ; 
And  when  it  dies 
An  oscillating  spangle  falls. 
66 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

• 

THE  DEATH-WATCH 

YOUR  measure  of  bliss  was  more  than  filled 
When  you  drank  the  wine  of  her  lips ; 

You    reeled    with    delight    while    your    pulses 

thrilled 
To  the  touch  of  her  finger  tips. 

Her  form  is  so  fine  and  her  face  so  fair, 
And  her  voice  so  low  when  she  speaks ; 

The  hue  of  the  primrose  is  on  her  hair 
And  the  tint  of  dawn  on  her  cheeks. 

God  gave  her  the  face  of  a  saint,  and  you 

Saw  her  only  in  saintly  guise ; 
'Tis  barely  a  month  since  she  vowed  to  be  true, 

This  woman  with  wonderful  eyes. 

'Tis  barely  a  month,  but  her  vows  are  vain, 
And  she  meets  you  with  cool  repose ; 

Not  a  pulse  of  passion  or  pang  of  pain 
Do  her  wonderful  eyes  disclose. 


67 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

. 

ITS& — ~— =^Sz£2fc±====== 


Your  hope  is  a  corpse,  and  with  pallid  brow 
You  stand  by  the  pall  of  the  dead ; 

Only  the  death-watch  is  left  to  you  now; 
So  watch  there  with  eyelids  of  lead. 


BEREFT 

A  BIRD  came  down  the  wind  one  morn 

And  nested  in  our  tree ; 
That  very  day  our  babe  was  born, 

And  then  we  numbered  three. 

But  when  the  summer  slipped  away, 

Our  roses  turned  to  rue; 
The  bird  took  wing  one  autumn  day, 

And  we  are  only  two. 


.68 


*  Y  V      -    f   1 
' 


r 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE  GLOAMING 

THE  West  is  in  a  blaze  of  gold ; 
The  day  in  regal  splendor  dies, 
And  silence  falls  on  field  and  fold. 

While,  in  the  East,  I  now  behold 

The  full-faced  moon  in  glory  rise, 
The  West  is  in  a  blaze  of  gold. 

The  darkness  deepens  in  the  wold, 

And  soft  the  evening  zephyr  sighs, 
And  silence  falls  on  field  and  fold. 

As  timid  stars,  grown  overbold. 

Peep,  one  by  one,  from  out  the  skies, 
The  West  is  in  a  blaze  of  gold. 


The  gowan  nestles  in  the  mould, 

The  dewdrop  on  the  heather  lies, 
And  silence  falls  on  field  and  fold. 

The  hearth  is  warm,  the  heath  is  cold, 
A  wight,  belated,  homeward  hies, 
The  West  is  in  a  blaze  of  gold, 
And  silence  falls  on  field  and  fold. 


69 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


ANOTHER  FOOL 

A  FOOL  there  was,  and  he  lost  his  soul, 
For  his  soul  was  steeped  in  sin ; 

His  house  of  clay  was  a  carnal  house, 
And  the  Devil  dwelt  therein. 

He  gave  his  life  to  folly  and  flesh, 

The  lust  of  women  and  wine ; 
And  lavished  his  substance  here  and  there, 

Till  he  quenched  the  spark  divine. 

The  Sirens  smiled  and  the  wine-cups  foamed 

When  he  ran  his  race,  I  ween ; 
And  the  Devil  and  he  played  dice,  they  say, 

For  the  fair  and  frail  Faustine. 


He  thought  he  knew,  but  he  did  not  know, 

Until  he  had  found  it  out, 
That  a  man  in  the  toils  of  a  sly  Frou-frou 

Must  ever  remain  in  doubt. 

The  sow  to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire, 

The  rake  to  his  rut,  say  I ; 
But  the  wage  is  death,  and  even  the  fool 

Will  curse  his  folly  and  die. 
70 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


DRIFTING 

ACROSS  San  Pablo's  heaving  breast 

I  see  the  home-lights  gleam, 
As  the  sable  garments  of  the  night 

Drop  down  on  vale  and  stream. 

The  daylight  on  his  royal  couch 

In  crimson  glory  dies, 
While  northward,  on  belated  wing, 

The  sad-voiced  bittern  flies. 

For  miles — from  where  yon  rounded  hills 

Darken  the  southern  sky — 
I  hear  the  bells  of  browsing  kine 

And  catch  the  herder's  cry. 

Just  where  the  silver  of  the  moon 
Falls  on  the  shimmering  tide, 

Marking  that  line  of  light,  I  see 
Twin  islands  side  by  side. 

Hard  by,  yon  vessel  from  the  seas 
Her  cargo  homeward  brings, 

And  soon,  like  sea-bird  on  her  nest, 
Will  sleep  with  folded  wings. 

71 


:____; 


^. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


The  fisher's  boat  swings  in  the  bay 
From  yonder  point  below, 

While  ours  is  drifting  with  the  tide 
And  rocking  to  and  fro. 

Carelessly  rocking  to  and  fro, 
As  shifts  the  fitful  stream, 

Two  Nimrods  dreaming  as  we  drift, 
And  sketching  as  we  dream. 


POOR  LITTLE   JO 

THEY  say  that  Our  Father  in  Heaven  know; 

best, 

But  why  is  it  so ! 
Dead  at  the  dawn,  and  gone  to  her  rest, 

Poor  little  Jo. 
Ours  by  the  mandate  of  God, 

Gift  of  His  infinite  grace, 
All  that  is  left  of  her  under  the  sod, 

With  the  rain  of  our  tears  on  her  face. 
Uncover  my  heart  if  you  must, 

While  I  utter  the  wail  of  my  woe, 
Ashes  to  ashes  and  dust  to  dust, 
Poor  little  Jo. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


FORECAST 

LIKE  the  hand  of  a  man  is  the  cloud  that  I 

see, 

An  omen  of  wrath  in  the  blue  of  the  sky ; 
The  phantom  appalls,  and  I  ask,  can  it  be 
The   wraith   of   the   storm    ere    the   tempest 
sweeps  by? 

We  feast  at  the  banquet  and  flaunt  at  the  fete, 
While  Lazarus  waits  for  the  crumbs  as  they 

fall; 
There's   faction   and   feud   in   the   councils   of 

state, 
While  honor  and  honesty  go  to  the  wall. 

Blasphemers  of  God,  and  the  foes  of  mankind, 
With  sword   and  with   fagot  would  lay  the 

land  waste; 
Beware  lest  you  wake  from  your  slumbers  to 

find 

Your   hearthstones    defiled   and   your   altars 
defaced. 


73 

J 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Think  not  that  the  plot  of  the  spoiler  is  foiled, 
Think  not  that   the  thug  will  refrain   from 

his  crime; 

The  tiger  is  crouched  and  the  serpent  is  coiled, 
They    are    lying   in   wait    and   biding   their 
time. 

These    minions    of   Satan,    these   monsters    of 

prey, 
Are  they  flesh  of  our  flesh  and  bone  of  our 

bone? 

For  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Hell,  and  they 
Are  the  dragon's  teeth  which  our  follies  have 
sown. 


74 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


SHAKESPEARE 

THE  years,  O  Bard !  add  lustre  to  thy  name ; 

We  hail  thee,  wonder  of  a  wondrous  age ; 

And   when   high    art   portrays   thy   peopled 

page, 

We  see,  as  London  saw,  with  loud  acclaim, 
Macbeth  take  counsel  of  his  haughty  dame, 

The    Hunchback    storm    across    the    mimic 
stage, 

The  Moor,  made  mad  with  passion,  vent  his 

rage, 

And  fat  Jack  Falstaff  vaunt  his  deeds  of  shame. 
The  men  begotten  in  thy  peerless  brain 

Are  types  of  hero,  villain,  braggart,  fool ; 
Thy  women,  women  to  the  very  core. 
For  thy  rare  counterpart  we  seek  in  vain ; 

Seer  of  no  sect,  and  helot  of  no  school, 
Reign  thou  in  high  Parnassus  evermore. 


f 

S3Y* 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


HAR-MA-KHU 

THE    SPHINX 

TO  hold  eternal  vigil  o'er  the  place, 
By  Ghiza's  royal  tomb  it  couchant  lies 
Beneath  the  solemn  arch  of  Egypt's  skies — 

A  nameless  type  of  terror  and  of  grace. 

The  toil  and  torment  of  a  patient  race, 

Thou  must  have  seen  with  fixed  and   stony 

eyes — 

Have  heard  their  hapless  moans,  their  help 
less  cries, 
With  that  same  tranquil  and  impassive  face. 

The  seal  of  silence  on  thy  lips  is  laid, 

The   myths    are   dumb,    tradition   gropes    in 

vain 

To  solve  the  voiceless  records  of  the  dead ; 
And  while  the  broken  tablets  fall  and  fade, 
Defied  by  thee,  the  ages  wax  and  wane, 
And  baffled  Time   goes  by   with  noiseless 
tread. 


76 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


MA  PAUVRE  PETITE 

THE  lamps  glow  within,  the  storm  raves  with 
out  ; 

I  sit  at  mine  ease  in  the  softened  light 
And  think  of  Ginevra.     She  seemed  so  devout, 
I  wonder  if  ever  the  shade  of  a  doubt, 

Crossed  the  mind  of  her  lord  ere  that  night. 

I  look  at  the  bubbles  that  dance  and  swim 
On  the  amber  wine  like  an  elfin  band, 

And  I  dream  of  the  past,  while  my  eyes  grow 
dim 

As  I  carelessly  kiss  with  my  lips  the  rim 
Of  the  antique  glass  in  my  hand. 

A  rustle  of  garments,  a  step  in  the  hall, 

And  my  princess  comes  in  her  queenly  grace  ; 

The  grim  Rembrandt  smiles  in  his  frame  on  the 
wall 

When  those  fairy  feet  on  the  carpet  fall 
As  she  takes  by  my  side  her  place. 

I  am  dreaming,  perchance,  yet  I  know  she  is 
there  ; 


77 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


On  my   forehead  I  feel  for  a  moment  her 

kiss ; 

A  subtle  something  is  in  the  air, 
An  olive  face  with  its  dark  brown  hair — 
But  'tis  folly  to  speak  of  all  this. 

She  chats  in  her  charming,  womanly  way, 

And  I  listen,  or  seem  to  listen,  the  while ; 
Somehow  vaguely  at  length  I  hear  her  say, 
"A  bit  of  romance,  or  the  plot  of  a  play, 
If  only  one  blithe,  bonny  bird  to  beguile." 

A  story  you  ask  for?  well,  so  let  it  be; 

Let  me  think — twenty  years  have  gone  by 

to  a  day. 

How  swiftly  the  summers  have  flown  since  we, 
Two  lads,  in  that  quaint  old  town  by  the  sea, 

Idled  and  trifled  the  summer  away. 

We  were  scarcely  nineteen — how  the  holidays 

flew, 

Two  naval  cadets,  off  duty,  on  shore; 
We  did,  I  suppose,  just  as  most  middies  do, 
Squandered  our  pay  in  a  mad  lark  or  two, 
Then  starved  for  a  month  to  make  up  the 
score. 

78 


• 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Tom  was  my  hero — I  thought  him  divine ; 
He's  an  admiral  now — won  his  stars  at  Mo 
bile; 

The  veriest  old  sea-dog,  they  say,  in  the  line — 
Washes  his  face  every  morning  in  brine 

And  swears  that  he'll  have  on  his  coffin  a 
keel. 

We  lodged  in  an  attic  just  off  from  the  park — 

In  a  mocking  mood  we  called  it  a  den ; 
If  I  rightly  remember,  the  square  is  St.  Mark, 
Houses  on  either  side  dingy  and  dark; 

We  would  smile  at  it  now — it  suited  us  then. 

For  a  neighbor  we  had — it  is   strange,  I  de 
clare, 

I  can  see  him  now  in  his  singular  guise — 
A  French  emigre,  with  his  silver  hair 
And  his  broken  speech  and  port  militaire, 

And  his  wan  little  girl  with  her  hungry  eyes. 

Once  or  twice  only  we  met  on  the  street, 

All    further    advances    seemed    somehow    in 

vain; 
But  morning  and  night  we  heard  him  repeat, 

79 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


"Ma  pauvre  petite,  ma  pauvre  petite," 

Till  our  own  hearts  caught  up  the  refrain. 

Said  Tom,  in  his  old,  impetuous  way, 

"Let's  give  them  a  sail  in  the  yacht,  my  boy, 
For  the  wind  is  a  trifle  fresh  to-day, 
And  who  knows,  poor  things,  but  a  taste   of 

salt  spray 
Might  change  all  their  sorrow  to  joy." 

In  less  than  an  hour,  with  eight  or  ten  more, 
We  had  them  on  board  of  our  staunch  little 

craft ; 

The  sails  were  all  set,  we  standing  off  shore, 
While  the  spray  from  the  white-caps  was  flying 

before 
And  the  wind  followed  hard  abaft. 

Just  how  it  all  happened  we  never  could  tell; 
The  child  leaned  on  the  rail  by  her  grand 
papa's  side; 
Our  weather-bow  must  have  been  caught  by  the 

swell, 
For  there  came  a  lurch   and  a   cry,   and  she 

fell— 

And  something  white  floated  off  on  the  tide. 
80 


.       03= 

E>     ' 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Tom  had  the  helm ;  in  an  instant  he  swung 
And  brought  her  to  in  the  eye  of  the  gale ; 

Two  men  were  over,  one  old  and  one  young ; 

But  young  arms  are  lusty,  not  likely  to  fail — 
And  how  does  my  blithe,  bonny  bird  like  the 
tale? 

What !    You   wish   to    hear   more   of   the    old 

emigre  ? 

Not  satisfied  yet?  it  seems  incomplete? 
Well,  look  in  my  eyes.     Don't  you  see,  chere 

amie, 

I,  I  was  the  lad  who  leaped  into  the  sea, 
And  you,  you  were  "ma  pauvre  petite." 


81 

J 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


LADY  JANE 

AN  ower  true  tale  I  fain  would  tell 
Of  Scottish  border  strife. 

And  how  an  English  Earl  did  win 
A  Scottish  maid  for  wife. 

He  was  the  Lord  of  Widdrington, 
Her  kinsmen  were  his  foes, 

And  she  was  Eraser's  lovely  lass, 
A  bonny  heather  rose. 

On  Cheviot's  flank  his  Lordship's  troop 
Had  met  the  Eraser  clan, 

Were  scattered  in  the  headlong  charge, 
And  routed  horse  and  man. 

And  lost  and  lorn,  and  wounded  sore, 

A  hunted  stag  at  bay, 
But  for  a  maid  who  succored  him, 

The  Earl  had  died  that  day. 

She  hid  him  in  the  rustling  corn 
And  gave  him  food  and  rest, 

The  while  her  baffled  kinsmen  sped 
Upon  their  bootless  quest. 

II 

KL 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


And  in  the  gloaming,  o'er  the  hills 

She  led  him  safe  and  sound, 
Until  he  reached  the  border  side 

And  trod  on  English  ground. 

Long  raged  the  fierce  and  bloody  feud, 
Which  rent  the  land  in  twain, 

And  many  a  lady  mourned  her  lord, 
And  many  a  lass  her  swain. 

Until  one  morn  from  Teviotdale 
The  word  came  down  the  glen 

That  all  was  lost  and  Widdrington 
Held  Fraser  and  his  men. 

Woe  fell  on  matron  and  on  maid, 

But  Janet  sped  away; 
High  o'er  the  Scottish  hills  she  hied 

To  where  the  English  lay. 

She  bade  them  lead  her  where  their  Chief 

Stood  with  his  kinsmen  near, 
And  though  her  heart  beat  fast  the  while, 

Her  voice  was  calm  and  clear. 


===^J.    1 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


"I  am  a  Eraser's  lass,  my  Lord, 
Your  grace  I  crave,"  she  said; 

Earl  Widdrington  made  answer  thus, 
And  bared  his  stately  head : 


"Your  Chieftain's  life  is  safe,  my  lass, 

His  fetters  I  will  break, 
And  let  the  men  of  Eraser's  clan 

Go  hence  for  your  dear  sake. 


"You  proved  a  steadfast  friend  to  me 

When  I  was  sore  beset, 
I  loved  you  then  with  all  my  heart, 

I  love  you,  lassie,  yet. 

"And  here  in  presence  of  my  kin, 
That  all  may  understand, 

I  sue  you  for  your  plighted  troth, 
I  sue  you  for  your  hand." 

"I  crave  your  pardon  if,"  said  she, 
"I  seem  distraught  in  mind ; 

The  eagles  with  the  eagles  mate, 
The  thrushes  seek  their  kind. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


"You  have  your  hawks,  you  have  your  hounds, 

You  have  your  bill  and  bow; 
Such  words  will  work  me  harm,  my  Lord, 

I  prithee  let  me  go." 

His  brother  Hugh  laughed  loud  and  said, 

"Now,  by  my  troth,  I  swear 
My  haughty  kin  would  doff  the  rose, 

And  place  the  thistle  there." 

And  while  his  kinsmen  by  his  side 

Laughed  loud  with  bitter  scorn, 
Lord  Widdrington,  with  flashing  eyes, 

Leaned  on  his  saddle-horn. 

"I  give  thee  escort,  gentle  maid, 

And  home  I  go  with  thee ; 
For,  by  Saint  Ann,  I  will  not  brook 

These  gibes  and  jeers,"  quoth  he. 

One  blessed  morn  the  wedding  bells 

Pealed  from  the  castle  fane, 
And  he  was  Lord  of  Widdrington, 

And  she  was  Lady  Jane. 


85 


THE   WOOING   OF   THE    ROSE 


THEN  AND  NOW 

A  VAULTED  roof,  a  columned  nave, 

An  oriel  window  whence  the  light 
Gilds  fretted  arch  and  architrave, 

As  moonlight  gilds  the  night. 
The  old,  old  story  of  the  heart ; 

Beside  the  chancel,  hand  in  hand, 
A  ring,  a  vow  "till  death  do  part," 

Two  wedded  lovers  stand. 

A  cold,  dark  sky,  a  darker  sea, 

A  foaming  fringe  of  breaking  surf; 
Beside  a  gnarled  and  leafless  tree 

A  path  of  tender  turf. 
A  woman  kneeling  on  the  sands, 

Two  white  lips  parted  as  in  prayer, 
A  Niobe  with  outstretched  hands, 

Wrestling  with  fell  despair. 


86 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


A  MEMOGRAPH 

IT  is  strange,  as  I  look  at  the  play  to-night, 
That  her  form  and  her  features   should  flash 

on  my  sight. 

The  past  and  the  present  are  set  in  the  scene, 
With  the  fathomless  gulf  of  the  years  between ; 
While  to  and  fro, 
In  the  mimic  show, 

The  ghosts  of  the  actors  come  and  go. 
Time  and  the  traces  of  time  are  gone, 
And  we  live  and  move  in  the  splendor  of  dawn. 
As  I  saw  her  once,  I  can  see  her  yet, 
But  her  heart  seems  filled  with  a  vague  regret, 
For  when  Juliet  weeps  her  cheeks  are  wet. 
Who  cares  for  the  sneer  of  the  worldly  wise, 
When  youth  looks  down  with  its  love-lit  eyes. 
Sir  Romeo  waits  at  the  wings  for  his  call, 
And  a  strain  of  Strauss 
Thrills  the  breathless  house, 
While  a  glory  and  glamor  are  over  it  all. 
O  the  sights,  and  the  sounds,  and  the  one  face 

there,    • 

With  the  rose  I  had  given  her  twined  in  her 
hair. 


87 


I 

ft 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

("The  rock  fell  under  us  in  one  sheer  sweep, 
thirty-two  hundred  feet.") 

HE  crawls  along  the  mountain  walls, 
From  whence  the  severed  river  falls ; 
Its  seething  waters  writhe  and  twist, 
Then  leap,  and  crumble  into  mist. 
Midway  between  two  boundless  seas 
Prone  on  a  ragged  reef  he  lies ; 
Above  him  bend  the  shoreless  skies, 
While  helpless,  on  his  bended  knees, 
Into  that  awful  gulf  profound, 
Appalled,  he  peers  with  bated  breath, 
Clutches  with  fear  the  yielding  ground, 
And  crouches  face  to  face  with  death. 
The  fearful  splendor  of  the  sight 
Begets  in  his  bewildered  brain 
A  downright  torture  of  delight, 
The  very  ecstacy  of  pain. 
A  sudden  frenzy  fills  his  mind, 
If  he  could  break  the  bonds  that  bind 
And  launch  upon  the  waves  of  wind ; 


88 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

..       _-___-  .'.'••  -  .:•••     ~-  -•«— ^  ~"""~"i~yjzr  ~T3r 


Only  to  loose  his  hold  and  leap, 

Then,  cradled  like  a  cloud,  to  sleep 

Wind-rocked  upon  the  soundless  deep. 

With  eyes  upturned,  he  breaks  the  spell 

And  creeps  from  out  the  jaws  of  hell. 

Pohono's  siren  wiles  beguile — 

He  drinks  her  kisses  in  the  wind, 

He  leaves  the  nether  world  behind. 

Up  and  still  upward,  mile  on  mile, 

With  muffled  tramp,  the  pilgrim  creeps 

Across  the  frozen  winding-sheet, 

Where  white-faced  death  in  silence  sleeps. 

Up  and  still  upward,  to  the  light, 

Until  at  last  his  leaden  feet 

Have  mocked  the  eagle  in  its  flight. 

Grim-browed  and  bald,  Tis-sa-ack  broods 

Above  these  white-robed  solitudes. 

A  mute,  awe-stricken  mortal  stands 

Upon  the  fragment  of  a  world ; 

And,  when  the  rifted  clouds  are  curled, 

Sees  far  below  the  steadfast  lands. 


89 


THE    WOOING   OF   THE    ROSE 


AN  OFT-TOLD  TALE 


I  RECOLLECT  one  certain  night  in  June 

(It  seems  to  me  our  nights  are  dearer  than 

our  days), 
When  dust  of  silver  from  the  moon 

(As  some  familiar  poet  says) 
Fell  softly  on  the  sea  and  land. 

It  was  the  night  of  nights;  pray  tell  what 
harm 

For  youth  and  beauty,  arm  in  arm, 
To  saunter  down  the  yellow  sand? 

I  quite  forget  just  how  it  came  about; 

There  was  an  earnest  word,  two  hands  held 

out, 

And  then  upon  his  breast, 
In  momentary  rest, 

The  mobile  mouth  and  tender  eyes 

Were  turned  to  him  in  glad  surprise. 
It  was  so  very,  very  nice,  you  know, 

To  press  her  seaside  hat  against  his  vest, 
A  sweet  foretaste  of  heaven,  although 

The  rest  was  only  momentary  rest ; 
For,  with  remorseful  start,  she  said: 


90 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


"Alas !  Alas !  for  me, 

It  cannot,  cannot  be; 
To-morrow  week  I  am  to  wed." 

How  small  a  word  will  grind   the  heart  to 

dust; 
A  breath  of  air  will  break  the  thread 

On  which  we  hang  our  trust ; 
And  while  his  lips  were  white  and  mute 
He  took  from  her  the  Dead  Sea  fruit, 

And  simply  bowed  his  head. 
An  oft-told  tale ;  it  was  the  wealth 
Of  youth  and  hope  and  matchless  health ; 

It  was  the  opulence  of  brawny  arms 

Against  the  rent  roll  of  a  hundred  farms. 
Back  to  his  dull,  unconscious  books 

He  went,  with  bruised  heart  and  sharpened 

brain, 
To  school  his  thoughts  and  mask  his  looks 

And  nurse  a  purpose  born  of  pain. 
A  trifle  cynical  he  seems,  and  yet 
He  may,  perhaps,  forget. 

"Hard    hit,"    Sir    Blase   says    in    well   bred 
slang; 

He  sees  the  symptoms  and  has  felt  the  pang. 
Brave  hearts  will  sometimes  wince,  he  knows, 

Will  wince  and  still  not  whine, 
91 


n 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


If  once  there  is  no  color  to  the  rose, 

No  sparkle  to  the  wine. 
And  she,  she  plays  her  wedded  part 
Right  royally,  with  subtle  art; 

And  wears  with  pride  her  gilded  chain ; 
But  for  the  semblance  of  a  heart 
We  seek  in  vain. 

The  man  whose  name  she  bears 

Is  old  and  gray  and  bent  with  cares ; 
But  then,  but  then, 
He  is  the  prince  of  men, 
For  she  is  mistress  of  the  Riverside 
And  has  a  brown  stone  front  in  town  beside. 

Time  brings  reprisals  to  us  all, 
And  soon  or  late  we  learn  the  truth 

That  stately  pride  will  have  its  fall, 
And  that  one  little  heart,  forsooth, 

Outweighs  it  all. 


92 

J 


• 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


HULDA 

IN  a  castle  built  of  stone, 
Hulda  sits  and  sighs  alone. 

Since  her  ill-starred  natal  day 
Forty  years  have  passed  away. 

Suitors  had  she  by  the  score 
In  the  palmy  days  of  yore. 

Belted  knights  of  high  degree 
Came  to  woo  on  bended  knee. 

High  she  held  her  stately  head ; 
"I  will  wed  a  prince,"  she  said. 

Homeward  rode  the  knights  forlorn, 
As  she  turned  from  them  in  scorn. 

But  the  prince  came  nevermore 
In  the  palmy  days  of  yore. 

So  she  sits  and  sighs  alone 
In  a  castle  built  of  stone. 

93 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


=^jj 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

THE  waves  were  beating  along  the  shore, 
And  the  wind  swept  by  with  a  dismal  moan, 

As  I  entered  the  silent  house  once  more 
And  groped  my  way  to  her  room  alone. 

I  had  seen  the  pageant  and  heard  the  prayer, 
And  had  watched  the  priest  in  the  solemn 

rite, 

But  I  could  not  think  that  my  love  lay  there, 
Robed    for    the    tomb    in    her    garments    of 
white. 

And    I    sought    her    chamber    with    one    sole 
thought, 

To  find  my  love  with  her  gentle  face ; 
I  could  see  the  pictures  her  hand  had  wrought, 

And  her  bird  still  hung  in  its  wonted  place. 

A  knotted  scarf,  and  the  fillet  which  bound 
Her  hair,  lay  there  with  its  glittering  pin; 

I  opened  the  leaves  of  a  book  and  found 
A  rose  I  had  given  her  pressed  therein. 

M 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


And  I  said  she  will  surely  come  if  I  call — 
She  is  only  waiting  to  hear  her  name ; 

And  I  breathed  the  one  she  loved  best  of  all, 
But  the  way  was  dark  and  she  never  came. 

I  was  dazed  and  dumb,  and  my  eyes  were  dry, 
And  I  watched  and  watched  till  the  break  of 
dawn, 

Then  the  rain  of  my  tears  fell  fast,  and  I 
Knew  well  that  the  life  of  my  life  was  gone. 


95 

J 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


AN  ALLEGORY 

SWEET  Floribel, 

I  fain  would  tell 

What  once  befell 

Our  neighbor's  starling  on  a  time: 
Fed  by  a  tender  hand  it  hung 
Upon  a  gilded  perch  and  sung, 

Until,  alas !  one  hapless  day, 
Lured  by  a  bird-note  from  the  lime, 

In  wantonness  it  flew  away. 

Somewhere  the  fowler's  snare  is  spread ; 

Unwary  feet  are  sure  to  trip; 
Forbidden  fruits  are  sweet,  'tis  said, 

Yet  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lip. 

Some  fleeting,  evanescent  hours — 
Amid  the  birds,  amid  the  flowers- 
Two  silken  wings  were  plumed  with  pride ; 
Then  came  the  bitter  night, 
And  ere  the  morning  light 


—•  —  -*• —     —  — C3         fj 

Our  birdling  drooped  and  died. 


96 


^m 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


NEITHER  DO  I  CONDEMN 

I'VE  sent  for  you,  Will.  I  know  you  won't 
mind; 

You  were  always  so  silent  and  good — 
When  others  were  rude  and  unkind, 

You  alone  understood. 

Please  bring  your  chair  here,  Will,  close  to  my 
side. 

There — lift  my  head.  I've  something  to  say. 
Oh,  I  thought  last  night  I'd  have  died ; 

How  I  longed  for  the  day. 

Well  again  soon — do  you  think  ?    Alas !  no. 

This  pain  at  my  heart  like  a  knife — 
But  it  matters  not  when  I  go 

Out  of  this  weary  life. 

Now,  promise  me,  Will,  to  do  what  I  ask ; 

And  bend  down  while  I  whisper  my  name ; 
For  women  like  me  wear  a  mask 

To  cover  and  hide  their  shame. 


97 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


There's  a  little  brown  house  on  the  hillside 
And  a  white-haired  old  man  left  alone-— 

OJh,  Will,  if  you  knew  how  I've  tried 
All  these  years  to  atone. 

Here's  a  package,  a  letter,  and  something  more ; 

A  lock  of  my  hair — don't  think  it  a  whim ; 
Send  them,  dear  Will,  when  all  is  o'er 

With  a  kind  word  to  him. 

Conceal  from  him  all  of  my  wickedness; 

Say  that  my  heart  ran  over  with  love — 
That  I  died  praying  God  to  bless 

And  unite  us  above. 

Perhaps  the  dear  God  will  forgive  the  sin 
For  the  sake  of  His  Son  crucified, 

And  permit  me  to  enter  in, 
Pardoned  and  purified. 

Back  of  the  town — on  the  slope,  to  the  west — 
Is  a  little  grave.    What !  tears  in  your  eyes  ? 

Lay  me  there  by  her  side  to  rest — 
There  where  my  baby  lies. 


98 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


O  God !     This  pain — it  is  coming.     Hark ! 

I    shall    die — don't    leave    me.      Stay,    Will, 

stay! 
I'm  going — your  promise — so  dark — 

Pray  for  me,  Will,  oh,  pray ! 

Dead.     Let  not  the  living  adjudge  the  dead — 
Unworthy  to  touch  His  garment's  hem; 

Remember  the  Master  hath  said, 
"Neither  do  I  condemn." 


99 

,  I 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


THE  MESSIAH 

HIS  was  the  coming  which  the  seers  foresaw, 
His  was  the  glory  which  men  long  to  see, 
He  was  the  God  who  died  for  you  and  me, 

And  we  accept  the  sacrifice  with  awe. 

His  life  and  teachings  are  to  us  divine, 
They  furnish  dole  for  every  human  need ; 
We  would  discard  no  dogma  of  the  creed, 

Nor  blot  a  word,  nor  abrogate  a  line. 

No   doubting   thought    can   turn   our   gold   to 

dross, 
No  sceptic  sneer  can  hang  our  heaven  with 

gloom ; 
And  so  we  weep  with  Mary  at  the  cross 

And  humbly  kneel  with  Mary  at  the  tomb. 
The  banner  of  our  Lord  is  now  unfurled — 
The  dead  Christ  lives  and  dominates  the  world. 


100 


1  1 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


AT  LAST  AT  REST 

A  WOMAN,  worn  and  wan,  lay  dying 

At  a  rude  wayside  inn ; 
Winter's  dead  leaves  without  were  flying, 

Dead  hopes  within. 

No  wet-eyed  mourners  took  their  places 

Beside  the  bed  of  death, 
Or  watched  with  sad,  averted  faces 

And  bated  breath. 

Alone,  uncared-for,  and  untended, 

Unshriven  and  unblessed — 
A  wayward,  stormy  life  was  ended, 

At  last  at  rest. 

If  one  could  read  the  volume  written 

In  furrowed  lines  of  care ; 
If  one  could  learn  the  secrets  hidden 

By  frosted  hair ; 


101 


THE   WOOING   OF   THE   ROSE 


How     much     that's     wrong     might     thus     be 
righted — 

How  much  might  be  made  plain ; 
Alas !  to  us,  so  narrow-sighted, 

God's  ways  seem  vain. 


SUMMER  DAYS 

HE  came  when  stormy  March  was  done 
And  April  birds  were  on  the  wing, 

When  flush  of  sward  and  flash  of  sun 
Lent  light  and  color  to  the  spring. 

His  smile  made  glad  the  summer  days, 
Until  my  foolish  heart  was  stirred ; 

And  as  we  walked  the  woodland  ways, 
I  listened  to  his  whispered  word. 

Now  fields  with  bloom  are  not  besprent, 
And  birds  no  longer  pipe  with  glee ; 

He  took  the  summer  when  he  went, 
And  left  the  winter  here  to  me. 


102 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


THE  MAHATMA'S  REDE 

CONVENED  in  the  forest  and  couched  on  the 

sod, 

We  bow  to  the  symbol  and  worship  the  God. 
The  smoke  of  His  incense  is  rising  on  high, 
The  arch  of  His  temple  is  spanned  by  the  sky. 
It  is  jeweled  with  stars  and  cloistered  by  trees, 
Illumined    by    moonlight   and    fanned    by    the 

breeze. 

His  priests  at  the  altars  are  standing  apart ; 
They   see   with  the   spirit  and  hear  with   the 

heart. 

His  edicts  are  wordless,  yet  fixed  and  sublime ; 
Far  wiser  than  wisdom  and  older  than  time. 
To  Him,  the  Eternal,  sing  paeans  of  praise ! 
The   World   without    End,    the    Beginning   of 

Days — 

Almighty,  All-knowing,  All-seeing,  Unseen— 
The  Master,  the  Maker,  benign  and  serene. 
The  voices  of  Nature  intone  and  adore 
With   thunder   of   billows    that   break    on    the 

shore ; 

The  worlds  in  their  orbits  wheel  onward  above, 
The   fruit  of  His  law  and  the   proof   of  His 

love. 

103 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


What  are  we,   pray   tell,   but   a   part   of  His 

plan — 

The  life  of  His  life  in  the  body  of  Man? 
He  breathes  on  the  germ  of  the  spiritless  clod ; 
It  stirs  with  emotion,  half  human,  half  God ; 
And  thus  we  have  being,  develop  and  grow, 
To  work  out  our  fate  and  to  reap  what  we  sow. 
We  live  but  to  die,  and  we  die  but  to  live ; 
We  lose  what  we  gain,  and  we  keep  what  we 

give; 

We  think  and  we  reason,  reflect  and  conceive, 
We  query  and  question,  we  doubt  and  believe; 
And  yet  we  are  baffled  and  seek  in  despair 
The  why   and  the  wherefore,   the  whence   and 

the  where. 

The  priests  and  the  prophets  in  ages  gone  by 
Heard  sounds  in  the  air  and  saw  signs  in  the 

sky; 

They  fashioned  a  fabric  of  faith  for  our  needs, 
With   its   marvellous    forms    and    its    merciless 

creeds, 

Invoking  with  carnage,  while  bigotry  strove, 
The  wrath  of  Jehovah,  the  thunders  of  Jove. 
Give  cant  to  the  dogs  and  give  creeds  to  the 

wind, 


104 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


For  Gods  that  are  false  are  the  foes  of  man 
kind. 

Inspired  by  himself,   in   this   sphere  where  we 
dwell, 

Man  makes  his  own  heaven;  he  makes  his  own 
hell. 

We  read  in  the  unwritten  gospel  and  know 

That  right  begets  joy  and  that  wrong  begets 
woe; 

That  pride  is  a  pitfall  and  lust  is  a  snare ; 

That  sin  may  be  foiled  if  we  bear  and  forbear ; 

That  abasement  of  self  is  more  than  the  shrift ; 

That  the  giving  of  alms  is  more  than  the  gift : 

That  calm  contemplation  will  lure  in  its  quest 

The  soul  to  Nirvana,  the  haven  of  rest. 

Take  counsel  of  conscience,  my  friends,  I  be 
seech  ; 

Be  slow  in  your  anger  and  calm  in  your  speech ; 

Be  gracious  in  manner  and  gentle  of  mien, 

With  hearts  that  are  loyal  and  hands  that  are 
clean ; 

Be  just  and  be  honest,  be  wise  and  discreet ; 

The  victor  is  crowned  in  the  hour  of  defeat. 

I  questioned  my  soul  as  I  stood  by  the  dead ; 

My  soul  in  its  anguish  made  answer  and  said, 

No  power  can  destroy,  and  no  fiat  create ; 
105 


w 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


For  death  is  transition  and  life  is  a  state, 
The  fruit  of  conditions  coercive  as  fate. 
Each  atom  of  form  and  each  atom  of  force 
Exist  as  a  part  of  their  infinite  source ; 
And  whether  in  motion,  or  whether  at  rest, 
Must  live  by  a  law  that  is  never  transgressed. 
This  then  is  the  marvellous  secret  of  death, 
To    live  without   life   and   to  breathe   without 
breath. 


106 


^HER    POEMS 

----- 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


MARIE 

IT  chanced  that  I,  in  years  gone  by, 
Sought  out  one  day,  I  scarce  know  why, 

The  market  of  Aubette ; 
And  I  saw  there  a  maiden  fair, 
With  midnight  eyes  and  golden  hair, 

And  fate  and  I  had  met. 

I  went  again  somehow,  and  then 
I  often  went ;  for  when,  oh  when, 

Will  heedless  youth  beware  ? 
The  sweet  surprise  within  her  eyes, 
As  when  the  morn  lights  up  the  skies. 

Allured  me  unaware. 

Her  timid  glance  did  so  entrance 
That  1,  beguiled  thereby  perchance, 

Deemed  it  a  mere  caprice ; 
Ah  well-a-day,  how  quickly  may 
We  fritter  golden  hours  away, 

Which  promise  joy  and  peace. 

An  attic  high,  against  the  sky- — 
Affaire  d'amour — a  fragile  tie — 

107 


j»»V^     .  ' 

Co 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 

S^Uliit^lttt^MM^JBA^UaMMttMwitiM"1! 


Two  swallows  'neath  the  eaves 
One  hour  ago  I  sought  and  lo ! 
No  birds  were  there;  the  one  I  know 

Has  gone,  the  other  grieves. 

Dear  lost  Marie,  I  would  not  see 
The  heaven  of  love  in  store  for  me, 

But  turned  with  pride  away. 
So  now  I  weep,  and  sadly  keep 
My  mournful  vigils  o'er  the  sleep 

Of  her  I  spurned  that  day. 

Could  I  forget  I  would,  and  yet, 
Remorse  is  keener  than  regret, 

Requiting  pain  with  pain. 
So  when  the  bells  ring  solemn  knells 
I  hither  bring  sweet  immortelles ; 

Dead  birds  come  not  again. 


1 


108 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


SCHAMYL'S  DEFEAT 

HOW  Caucasus  peaks  were  flashing 

'Neath  their  crowns  of  dazzling  snow, 
How  the  turgid  streams  were  dashing 

As  we  stemmed  the  torrent's  flow ; 
Where  the  sun  of  summer  dances 

On  the  boundless  steppes  below, 
Brightly,  brightly,  gleamed  our  lances 

When  we  met  the  Russian  foe. 

O  the  ramp  and  roar  of  battle ! 

Beat  of  hoof  and  clash  of  steel — 
While  the  volleys  flash  and  rattle 

And  the  squadrons  charge  and  wheel ; 
Far  and  wide  the  hosts  are  scattered, 

Long  and  loud  the  cannons  peal ; 
Now  our  lines  are  torn  and  shattered, 

Now  our  ranks  recoil  and  reel. 

Here  arnid  the  dead  and  dying, 

Lost  and  lorn,  and  wounded  sore — 

On  the  cold  earth  I  am  lying, 
And  the  night  is  closing  o'er; 

Grant,  O  grant  a  dawn  of  splendor 

109 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


There  beside  the  Caspian  shore, 
Where  my  Mitska,  true  and  tender, 
Waits  to  greet  her  love  once  more. 

Lo !  the  lurid  light  is  creeping 

Slowly  up  the  eastern  sky, 
Round  and  round  the  vultures  sweeping, 

Watch  the  carnage  from  on  high ; 
Soon  the  gaunt  wolves  will  be  snarling 

O'er  the  corpses  where  I  lie, 
Weep  not,  weep  not,  O  my  darling! 

For  thy  lover  doomed  to  die. 


110 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

I 


IN  THE  SIERRAS 

THE  rocks  loom  o'er  the  tranquil  vale, 

Like  ruins  vast  and  hoary ; 
Each  gray  old  turret  has  its  tale, 

Each  seam  and  scar  its  story. 

A  hundred  centuries  have  penned 
Upon  these  time-stained  pages, 

A  secret  lore,  that  is  not  kenned 
By  wisest  seers  and  sages. 

The  fire,  the  frost,  perchance  the  storms 

Of  some  primeval  ocean, 
Have  worn  and  torn  these  ragged  forms, 

This  petrified  commotion. 

The  years  have  softened  all  the  scene, 
The  winds  have  sown  the  grasses; 

And  sun  and  rain  have  clothed  with  green 
The  naked  slopes  and  passes. 

Here,  on  the  granite  crags  I  lie, 
Lulled  by  the  wind's  low  wailing, 

And  watch  against  the  distant  sky 
The  eagle  slowly  sailing. 

in 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


The  silver  moon,  with  mellow  ray, 
Across  yon  spur  is  drifting; 

The  roseate  tints  of  dying  day 
Along  the  west  are  shifting. 

The  gray  mist  gathers  in  the  gorge, 
Where  bright  cascades  are  flowing; 

While,  like  the  gleam  of  lighted  forge, 
The  snow-crowned  peaks  are  glowing. 

Rare  pictures,  born  of  sun  and  shade, 
Come  with  the  evening  shadows ; 

Night  nestles  in  the  silent  glade 
And  veils  the  emerald  meadows. 

Above,  the  moaning  pine  trees  stand ; 

Below,  the  shining  river ; 
Uncovered,  in  this  temple  grand, 

I  worship  God,  the  Giver. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


ENGLAND  AT  BAY 

THEY  have  sought  to   revile   you  with  jeers 

and  with  laughter, 

Bold  mother  of  empires  and  mistress  of  seas ; 
Let    them    look    to    their    bulwarks    whenever, 

hereafter, 

The   red  cross   of  England  is  flung  to  the 
breeze. 

From  the  Cape  to  the  Baltic  your  pennants  are 

flying; 
The  Czar   and  the  Kaiser  may   press  their 

demands, 
With  a  muster,  ere  long,  of  the  dead  and  the 

dying, 

When  the  leash  of  the  war  hounds  is  slipped 
from  your  hands. 

Do  they  think  to  dismay?     Do  they  dare  to 

defy  you? 
Do  they  dream  that  the  spirit  of  England  is 

dead  ? 

It  is  well  to  recall,  ere  they  seek  to  decry  you, 
The  fields  where  the  blood  of  the  Briton  was 
shed. 

113 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


If  they  read  on  the  scroll  of  your  grandeur 

and  glory 
The  names  that  are  deathless,  the  deeds  that 

were  done, 
They  will  learn  how  replete  is  the  page  of  your 

story, 

How  great  are  the  triumphs  which  freedom 
has  won. 

In  the  hush  of  the  tempest  your  foes  are  creat 
ing; 

Ere  the  tocsin  is  sounded,  the  banners  un 
furled, 

We  can  see  on  the  ramparts,  the  Lion  in  wait 
ing, 
Alone  and  undaunted,  confronting  the  world. 


114 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


VICTORIA 

Regina  Imperatrix. 

Read  at  the  Jubilee  Banquet,  San  Francisco, 
June  21,  1897. 

O  WOMAN,  whose  annals   can  never  be  torn 

From  the  record  of  England's  renown; 
How  wisely  and   well   in   your  day   you   have 
borne 

The  burdens  of  scepter  and  crown. 
Your  hand  on  the  pulse  of  the  people,  you  feel 

The  throb  that  responds  to  your  own; 
Their  will  is  the  will  and  their  weal  is  the  weal 

Of  the  Commons,  the  Lords,  and  the  Throne. 

Evolved  by  the  fates  and  adjusted  by  time, 
The  poise  of  the  nation  is  true; 

Its  future  is  fixed  and  its  past  is  sublime, 
And  its  glory  is  symboled  in  you. 

Not  the  prowess  of  England,  the  might  of  her 

arms, 
Wherever  her  flag  is  unfurled, 


115 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


But  the  clang  of  her  hammers,  the  tilth  of  her 

farms, 
Have  won  her  the  marts  of  the  world. 

Your  reign  has  been  marked  by  the  triumphs 
of  peace, 

Resplendent  in  letters  and  art ; 
O  that  war  and  the  rumors  of  war  may  cease, 

Is  the  cry  of  your  woman's  heart. 
Type  of  all  that  is  noblest  in  mother  and  wife, 

We  hail  you,  O   Empress  and  Queen! 
God   save  you!   and  grant   that   your  autumn 
of  life 

Be  peaceful,  benign  and  serene. 


116 


— " 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


WHAT   MATTERS   IT   WHERE    OR 
WHEN? 

An  Episode  of  the  Morgue. 

I  AM  tired  of  the  bicker  and  banter  of  life, 
I  am  tired  of  its  serfdom  and  thrall, 

I  am  tired  of  the  stress  and  the  strain  and  the 

strife, 
I  am  tired  of  it  all. 

The  ghosts  of  my  comrades  come  back  to-night, 
When  the  battle  is  well-nigh  done; 

How  many  there  were  who  went  down  in   the 

fight, 
And  how  few  there  were  who  won. 

I  put  my  head  down  on  my  hands  and  think 
Of  the  hopes  that  have  passed  me  by, 

Of  the  woman  who  gave  me  a  cup  to  drink 
And  left  me  to  drain  it  dry. 

I  am  worn  and  weary  and  long  for  rest, 
And  there's  no  one  to  watch  and  weep; 


117 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


This  life  is  only  an  hour  at  its  best, 
And  after — a  dreamless  sleep. 

The  grim  scythe-bearer,  so  gaunt  and  thin, 

Reaps  ever  his  harvest  of  men, 
And  sooner  or  later  will  garner  us  in; 

What  matters  it  where  or  when? 

So  here's  to  the  fellow  who  laughs  at  fate 
And  falls  with  his  face  to  the  foe ; 

The  embers  are  dead  in  the  blackened  grate — 
I  bid  you  good-night,  and  go. 


118 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

--;,^:^ 


FAITH 

THE    earth,    our   dwelling-place,   is    one   vast 
tomb; 

Man  lives  his  little  span  and  then  he  dies; 

Ere  long  his  handiwork  in  ruin  lies, 
And  each  and  all  meet  one  impending  doom. 

And  yet  while  power  and  pride  go  down  in 

gloom, 

And  fear  before  the  dread  Destroyer  flies, 
And  tower  and  temple  fall,  no  more  to  rise, 

The  little  wayside  flower  bursts  forth  in  bloom. 

And  lo !  we  learn  that  God  himself  doth  reign ; 
The  seasons  come  and  go,  and  in  their  spheres 
The   planets   wheel   in   rhythmic    sweep   and 
swell. 

Death  is  not  death,  for  God  doth  so  ordain, 
Faith  bids  us  put  aside  our  mortal  fears, 
And  trust  in  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well. 


1 


119 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


PADRE  KINO 

AS  read  in  old  monastic  lore, 

So  runs  the  legend  of  traditions, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 

Along  Pimeria's  arid  shore, 

Were  seen  a  hundred  white-walled  missions. 

Throughout  the  dread  and  desert  lands, 

Where  roamed  fierce  tribes  intent  on  pillage, 
From  Blanca's  snows  to  Gila's  sands, 
Transformed  by  consecrated  hands, 

Bloomed  fertile  fields  with  careful  tillage. 

And  where  the  iridescent  morn 

Once  lit  the  waste  with  tinted  lustres, 
Amalthea  filled  her  fabled  horn 
From  meadows  rank  with  tasseled  corn 
And  hillsides  flushed  with  purple  clusters. 

The  subtle  skill  which  deftly  tilled 

The  barren  dunes  and  sterile  places, 
By  power  assumed  and  pledge  fulfilled 
And  timely  word  and  deed,  instilled 

In  savage  breasts  the  Christian  graces. 


1 

^ 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  mission  bells  betimes  invite 

To  prayer  and  praise  and  prompt  confession ; 
With  awe  the  humble  neophite, 
On  bended  knees,  each  morn  and  night 

Tells  o'er  his  beads  in  deep  contrition. 

No  Cortez,  with  his  lances  keen, 

On  conquest  bent  has  hither  drifted ; 
Only  a  sandled  monk  is  seen, 
With  patient  grace  and  prudent  mien 
And  sacred  symbol  high  uplifted. 

Inspired  to  found  a  new  crusade, 

With  fervent  faith  and  fixed  devotion, 

From  Salamanca's  cloistered  shade, 

In  mail  of  righteousness  arrayed, 
The  Padre  Kino  crossed  the  ocean. 

Within  that  sanctified  retreat, 

Absorbed  in  holy  meditations, 
While  kneeling  at  Immanuel's  feet, 
He  heard  the  voice  divine  repeat, 

"Go  preach  my  gospel  to  all  nations." 

The  sainted  hero's  race  is  run ; 

We  read  with  tears  the  touching  story, 


THE    WOOING   OF    THE    ROSE 


Of  how,  by  daily  penance  done 
And  Christian  faith  and  works,  he  won 
At  last  the  martyr's  crown  of  glory. 

The  years,  with  their  remorseless  hands, 
Have  ground  to  dust  the  white-walled  mis 
sions  ; 

And,  in  the  place  of  fruitful  lands, 
Have  left  us  but  the  drifting  sands, 

The  broken  shrines,   the  old  traditions. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  THORN 

A  YOUTH,  once  walking  in  the  early  dawn, 
Espied  a  red  rose  blushing  on  the  lawn. 

Its  simple  beauty  caught  his  fickle  sight, 
Its  subtle  perfume  filled  him  with  delight. 

With  eager,  selfish  haste,  that  self-same  morn, 
He  plucked  the  rose,  unmindful  of  the  thorn. 

Alas,  alack-a-day!  his  joy  has  fled; 
Only  the  thorn  remains,  the  rose  is  dead. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


A  MONOGRAPH 

ANNO  DOMINI  eighteen  thirty-one, 

In  the  third  year  of  wedlock,  there  was  born 

To  John  and  Josephine  an  only  son. 

Thus  much  was  written  on  his  birthday  morn. 

Swathed,  nursed  and  christened,  as  befits  the 
heir 

Of  honest  yeomen,  he  waxed  stout  and  fair; 

Until  at  length,  well  grown,  he  quit  the  fold. 

A  few  strong  headlines  and  the  rest  is  told. 
A  mother's  hopes,  a  mother's  fears, 
A   schoolboy's  triumphs   and  his  tears, 
A  dear  girl's  love,  a  stolen  kiss, 
A  mutual  vow  for  good  or  ill, 
A  year  or  more  of  wedded  bliss, 
A  new-made  grave  beyond  the  hill. 
The  bitter  pang,  the  life-long  pain, 
The  transient  pleasures  of  an  hour, 
The  shifting  tides  of  loss  and  gain, 
The  bootless  strife  for  place  and  power. 
He  joined  the  ranks  where  brave  men  fell, 
He  saw  the  battle's  lurid  glare, 
He  heard  the   scream   of  shot   and  shell, 
The  rolling  drums,  the  trumpets  blare. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Amid  the  windrows  of  the  dead 
I  knelt  to-day  beside  his  bed. 
He  died  as  men  have  died  before, 
A  spent  wave  on  a  barren  shore. 
We  storm  the  fortress,  and  we  fail ; 
We  dream  of  eagle-flights,  and  fall. 
I  have  writ  down  an  o'er-true  tale; 
Alas!  God  help  us — that  is  all. 


124 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


LONG  TOM 

PASSING  to-day  on  the  crowded  street, 
A  character  quaint  I  chanced  to  meet, 
Dressed    in   an   obsolete,   primitive   way  — 
Erewhile  the  mode,  but  just  now  not  au  fait  — 
By  a  bundle  of  blankets  freighted  down, 
111  at  ease  in  the  ways  of  the  town, 
Vacantly  looking  at  this  and  that 
Under  rim  of  his  limpsy  hat; 
Bent  of  body  and  shaky  of  limb, 
Grizzled  of  locks,  and  gaunt  and  grim, 
A  wistful  look  in  his  filmy  eye, 
Purposeless,  hopeless  sauntering  by. 

This  singular  somebody,  I  opine, 

Is  an  antique  fossil  of  Forty-nine  ; 

Albeit  a  taciturn  man  he  seems, 

His  babble  will  flow  like  the  mountain  streams, 

If  you  simply  suggest  a  "social  smile"  ; 

He   takes    whiskey   straight,    remarking   mean 

while 

That  he  finds  since  he  had  the  rheumatiz 
That  it  don't  do  to  take  water  in  his  ; 
Then    follow,   perforce,   the   trail   of  his   talk, 
It  leads  over  somewhere  to  some  North  Fork, 
125 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Thence  up  the  river  to  So-and-so's  Bar, 
And  he  will  tell  you  that  "thar  was  whar," 
Just  under  the  grass-roots,  one  day  he  found 
Pockets  of  nuggets  and  dust  by  the  pound. 

Events  are  the  milestones  which  mark  time's 

lapse, 

Whereby  he  recounts  his  haps  and  mishaps. 
'Twas  the  summer  that  Texas  Bill  was  drowned, 
Or  the   gulch   whar   the   ten-pound  lump   was 

found, 

Or  the  day  when  Page  &  Bacon  busted, 
Or  the  time  when  Dave  got  up  and  dusted. 
The  year  of  the  Frazier  River  stampede — 
The  dogondest  humbug  he  ever  seed. 
He's  only  waiting  to  make  his  pile — 
In  coal-oil  parlance  they  say,  "strike  ile" — 
And  then  he'll  go  back  to  the  States,  you  bet, 
And  see  the  old  gal  and  the  chicks;  and  yet, 
He  hasn't  heard  for  many  a  year 
From  Sal  and  the  babies ;  'tis  somewhat  queer ; 
But  then  he  reckons  the  times  is  tight, 
And  Sal  never  was  much  on  the  write. 
Poor  driveler!  'tis  years  since  Sal  was  laid 
In   dreamless   sleep   'neath   the   willows'   shade. 

126 


3 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


^3 


And  your  babies  must  men  and  women  be, 
Drifting  about  on  the  open  sea. 
Better  go  down  in  the  stormy  strife, 
Than  strand  on  the  reefs  of  a  useless  life. 


IN  THE  SWIM 

I  WAS  struck  with  the  warmth  of  her  greet 
ing, 

When  she  gave  me  her  finger  tips; 
And  I  heard  with  surprise,  at  our  meeting, 

The  laugh  and  the  chaff  of  her  lips. 

I  thought  her  as  cool  as  December, 

Whenever  we  met  heretofore, 
But  now  I  had  found  her  an  ember, 

With  smiles  and  with  small-talk  galore. 

She  talked  of  the  fun  and  the  fashion, 
She  talked  of  the  dullness  of  town, 

She  talked  of  the  play  and  its  passion, 
She  talked  of  her  new  Paris  gown. 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  then,  with  a  queer  little  gesture, 
She  said  it  was  laid  on  the  shelf; 

Though  sad  was  the  hue  of  her  vesture, 
She  seemed  in  high  feather  herself. 

. 

My  man,  in  the  meantime,  was  walking 

My  team  on  the  asphalt  below, 
And  I  asked  could  we  not  do  our  talking 

On  the  road  to  the  "Cliff?"  Would  she  go? 


Ah  no,  she  was  housed  for  the  season, 
She  thought  it  bad  form  to  go  out; 

Then  told  me,  sub  rosa,  the  reason — 
Her  Uncle  had  died  of  the  gout. 

As  she  passed  me  the  wine  and  the  biscuit, 
She  said  it  might  do  after  dark, 

And  if  I  thought  best,  she  would  risk  it 
And  go  for  a  spin  in  the  Park. 

I  may  be  as  dull  as  a  booby, 

But  I  thought,  as  we  stood  in  the  hall, 
She  has  heard  of  dad's  strike  in  the  "Ruby," 

And  thinks  me  a  catch,  after  all. 


128 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


"TINS  TO  MEND!" 

"TINS  to  mend!"    How  he  swings  along, 
That  curious  man  with  his  tattered  clothes, 
And  his  swarthy  face  and  his  crooked  nose, 
And  that  nasal  chant  wherever  he  goes, 

Quaint  burlesque  of  a  song. 

The  vagrant  life  he  leads,  who  knows? 
Through  the  highways  and  byways,  out  and  in, 
Searching  early  and  late  for  worn-out  tin; 
The  housemaid  declares  that  he  smells  of  gin — 

He  don't  seem  like  a  rose. 

. 

As  I  watched  him  that  autumn  day, 
I  marvelled  if  perchance  some  biting  scorn, 
Or  a  blighted  hope,  or  a  life  forlorn, 
Had  not  changed  the  gold  of  his  early  morn 

Into  an  ashen  gray. 

And  where  fell  first  his  childhood's  glance — 
Whether     by    Vineland's     hilled     and     castled 

stream, 

Or  where  the  Bosphor's  storied  waters  gleam, 
Or  Adriatic's  thousand  islands  seem 

The  haunts  of  old  romance. 

129 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


"Tins  to  mend !"  was  the  weird  ref ram 
Which  fell  on  my  ear  as  I  strolled  along, 
Farther  and  farther  from  the  city's  throng, 
Till  by  an  humble  cot  he  ceased  hi?  song, 

From  toil  set  free  again. 

The  door  ajar,  I  saw  him  kissed; 
A  little   child,  with   sweet,  endearing   cry, 
Sprang  to  his  arms,  love  beaming  from  her  eye ; 
Mine  own  were  somehow  wet — I  can't  tell  why — 

It  might  have  been  the  mist. 

The  good  God  keeps  us  in  His  sight — 
Sure,  if  in  pleasant  paths  our  footsteps   fall, 
Or  if  our  dead  hopes  lie  beneath  the  pall, 
That  joy  and  sorrow  come  alike  to  all, 

That  morn  succeeds  the  night. 


180 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

"MENE,  MENE,  TEKEL,  UPHARSIN" 

THE  Manchu  gave  no  heed  to  war's  alarms, 

But  drove  his  flocks  afield,  and  pitched  his 

tent ; 

Till  Genghis   Kahn  had   called  his  hordes  to 
arms, 

And  by  one  blow  the  Middle  Kingdom  rent. 
Leaving  a  trail  of  blood  and  fire  behind, 

He  neither  stays  his  onward  march,  nor  waits, 
Till  even  Europe  stands  aghast  to  find 

This  Tartar  Chieftain  at  her  very  gates. 

Let  Celt  and  Gaul  and  Muscovite  beware, 

Lest  in  their  lawless  lust  and  greed,  some  day 
They  wake  the  sleeping  tiger  in  his  lair, 

And  see  the  Yellow  Peril  turn  at  bay. 
Justice   may   drop    the   scales,    and   draw   the 
sword ; 

A  Menace  stands  behind  you  one  and  all; 
Then  hear  and  heed  the  grave  potential  word 

Belshazzar  saw  upon  his  palace  wall. 


131 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 
AU  REVOIR 

TO  J.  D.  R. 

BOON  comrade,  in  a  hundred  brilliant  bouts, 
Where  wit  with  wit  played  carte  and  tierce 

full  fast, 

With  eager  thrust  and  parry  to  the  last, 
We've  hailed  thee  victor  knight  with   pealing 
shouts. 

And  in  life's  ups  and  downs  and  ins  and  outs, 
When  weaklings  wait  and  folly  stands  aghast, 
Fail  not,  Sir  Knight,  to  prick,  as  in  the 
past, 

The  thin  pretense  of  shams,  the  fear  of  doubts. 

'Tis  well  betimes,  in  our  prosaic  land, 
To  conjure  up  the  days  of  old  romance, 

When  simple  faith  was  more  than  sordid 

might. 
And  if  so  be  the  hour  and  age  demand, 

We  look  to  see  thee,  armed  with  sword  and 

lance, 

Go   forth  to  strike  for  God  and  for  the 
right. 

132 


J^ 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


TO    RAPHAEL    WEILL 

(Read  at  a  dinner  tendered  him  by  citizens  of 

San   Francisco,    upon   which    occasion    he 

was   invested   with   the   Cross   of   the 

Legion  of  Honor  by  the  Consul 

General  of  France.) 

IN  glad  response  I  strike  my  dormant  lyre, 
To  give  thee  greeting  loyal  friend  and  true ; 
And  as  old  mem'ries  flood  my  soul  anew, 

I  fain  would  wake  once  more  its  fervid  fire. 

, 

The  boon  companions  of  thy  foster-land, 

Now  standing  here  on  life's  meridian  crest, 
Exult  to  see  that  cross  upon  thy  breast, 

Proud  token  of  the  open  heart  and  hand. 

Not  in  the  realm  of  letters  or  of  art, 

Nor  on  the  tented  field  like  knight  of  old, 
By  some  brave  deed  hast  thou  thy  guerdon 

won; 

But  here  where  thou  hast  nobly  borne  thy  part, 
This  honor  comes,  with  blessings  manifold, 
To  crown  thy  life  Dear  Heart,  for  good 
deeds  done. 

133 


'— ™— 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


A   RED-LETTER   DAY 

• 

AN  hour  of  toil  and  strife,  and  we  are  dead. 
Life  is  a  lie,  a  bitter  lie,  I  said, 

And  death  itself  is  only  dust  to  dust. 

All  men  are  mad  indeed  with  venal  lust, 
The  toiling  galley  slaves  of  cent  per  cent ; 

There  is  no  cure,  alas !  for  all  these  ills. 
In  such  a  mood  I  folded  up  my  tent 

In  sooth  and  sought  the  freedom  of  the  hills. 
And  from  the  couch  of  pine  boughs  where  I  lie, 
As  one  by  one  the  dark-winged  shadows  fly, 

I  watch  the  birth  of  this  auspicious  day. 
There  is  a  quickening  in  the  womb  of  night, 
A  fringe  of  dawn  and  then  the  flush  of  light. 

Slowly  the  sable  curtain  rolls  away. 
Let  there  be  light,  as  God  Himself  ordains. 

A  beacon  lit  by  His  divine  decree, 
Sign-manual  that  law  and  order  reigns, 

Flashes  from  space  athwart  the  land  and  sea. 
Full-orbed  the  prince  of  light  and  life  is  born, 

His    royal  banners   flush   the   eastern   skies ; 

I  shake  the  spell  of  slumber  from  my  eyes 
And  hie  me  forth  elate  to  meet  the  morn. 

And  lol  from  peak  to  peak,  on  either  hand, 

134 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  new-born  daylight  ripples  o'er  the  land. 

All  hail,  Aurora,  herald  of  the  sun! 
As  o'er  the  peaks  thy  coursers  dash  apace, 

Behold  the  pale-faced  stars  die  one  by  one, 
And  earth,  awaking  from  the  cool  embrace 
Of  night,  reveals  to  us  her  rosy  face. 

Although  the  impress  of  repose  remains, 
The  seal  of  sleep  is  broken ;  to  the  ear 
Come  palpitating  waves  of  sound;  I  hear 

The  life-tide  ebb  and  flow  in  nature's  veins, 
Tones  inarticulate,  the  stir  of  wings, 
The  mellow  murmur  of  earth's  viewless  springs. 

An  amber  halo  glorifies  the  hills ; 
And  as  the  owl  on  muffled  wing  retires, 

One   half-awakened  minstrel   lightly   trills 
An  overture  for  all  the  sleeping  choirs. 

The  countless  choristers  will  join  ere  long 

In  one  exultant  avalanche  of  song. 
Come  forth,  O  weary  denizen  of  town, 

Bathe  in  the  sunshine,  breathe  the  balmy  air ; 
Shake  off  the  toils  of  traffic  and  lay  down 

The  life-long  burden  which  you  seem  to  bear. 
Wait  not  for  death  to  break  thy  prison  bars, 

And  send  thy  ransomed  soul  to  paradise; 
But  seek  betimes  the  free  glad  life  beneath  the 
stars. 

135 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


i 


For  thee  the  gods  have  spread  a  rich  repast ; 
Ambrosia  falls  like  manna  from  the  skies 
And  nectar  flows  in  every  wayside  rill. 
Come  forth  and  break,  for  once,  thy  life-long 

fast, 

And  from  this  gracious  bounty  take  thy  fill. 
With  eager  step   I  climb  the  ridge  to   seek 
A  highland  glade  beneath  the  purple  peak. 
There   all  the  shining  day,   from   dawn  till 

dark, 
The  wary  birds  beneath  the  covert  hide. 

Meanwhile   my   dogs   exult  with   bound   and 

bark 

And  beat  the  tangled  brake  from  side  to  side. 
Borne  onward  by  the  day's  advancing  light, 
The  waves  of  warmth  roll  down  the  rocky 

height, 

And  long  before  the  ardent  sun  has  kissed 
The  humid  lowlands  with  his  earliest  beam, 
I  catch  the  gleam  and  sparkle  of  the  stream 
Between  the  fading  folds  of  silver  mist. 
From  nook  and  nest,  when  full-fledged  day  is 

born, 

WTiat  swarms  of  life  come  forth  to  greet  the 
morn. 


136 


3£j|r 


(C/ 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  drowsy  hum  of  the  bee  is  heard 

And  the  locust's  clanging  cry, 
And  a  flashing  gem  in  the  form  of  a  bird 

On   its  jeweled  wings   darts  by. 
The  linnet  sings  in  the  lowly  hedge 

And  the  raven  croaks  above; 
The  lizard  basks   on  the  crannied  ledge 

And  the  hawk  swoops  down  on  the  dove. 
The  dragon-fly  like  a  fiend  is  seen 

Poised  in  mid-air  on  his  gauze-like  wings; 
And  beetles  and  moths  in  gold  and  green, 

And  wasps  with  their  shining  rings. 
Spiders  are  weaving  their  filmy  snares, 

And  bees  are  hoarding  their  honeyed  stores ; 
While  emmets,  busy  with  household  cares, 

Trail  over  the  forest  floors. 
Butterflies  creep  from  the  silken  pall 

In  the  tomb  where  the  chrysalis  dies; 
And  through  brooding  leaves  the  sunbeams  fall 

And  luminous  columns  of  light  arise. 
In  these  shafts  of  light,  from  morn  to  night, 
The  midges  reel  in  their  amorous  flight. 

The  marmots  chatter,  the  magpies  scold, 
The  quails  are  piping  along  the  slopes; 

And  down  in  the  heart  of  the  dusky  wold 
The  owl  sits  alone  in  his  crypt  and  mopes. 
137 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Through  the  reedy  marsh  the  bitterns  wade, 
And  along  the  marge  the  herons  stalk; 

The  rabbit  scurries  across  the  glade, 
And  over  the  canon  wheels  the  hawk. 

I  skirt  along  the  mountain's  bosky  flank 
And  find  primeval  parks  of  pines  and  firs. 
Between   the   shoulders   of  projecting  spurs 

These  lordly    cones   are  marshaled  rank   on 

rank. 
In  the  ambrosial  gloom  dark  aisles  of  pines 

Lead  out  to  sunny  glades  and  laughing  water 
ways, 
Where  moss-enameled  trunks  and  trailing  vines 

Hedge  in  the  bud  and  bloom  of  vernal  days. 

Down  the  cool  distance  of  the  long  arcade 
The  white  azalea's  snowflakes  fleck  the  way ; 

And  in  the  shelter  of  the  fostering  shade 
I  pluck  one  hooded  violet  of  May. 

The    fragrance    of    the     flower-embroidered 

mead 

Fills  all  the  dreamy  air  with  fresh  delight. 
Undaunted,  from  some  far  sequestered  height, 

The  doe  leads  here  her  spotted  fawns  to  feed ; 
And  here  the  bee  and  bird  and  butterfly 
Find  spread  for  them  a  floral  feast  on  high. 
138 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Borne  on  the  tides  of  air,  now  faint,  now 
clear, 

The  roar  of  waters  breaks  upon  my  ear. 
A  shower  of  brook-notes  floods  the  perfect  day, 

Where  sun-rays  pierce  the  meshes  of  the  mist 
An  arch  of  splendor  spans  the  falling  spray. 

Haply  some  Naiad  haunts  the  stream;  I  list 
The  sibylistic  whisper  of  the  leaves ; 
A  Faun  seems  grieving  when  the  fir-tree  grieves, 

And  in  the  pine's  pathetic  monotone 

Methinks  I  hear  the  sad-voiced  Ariel  moan. 
Drenched  by  the  rain  of  ceaseless  waterfalls, 
Moist-footed  mosses  scale  the  dripping  walls. 

Here,  wary  of  the  angler's  tempting  hook, 

The  lithe  and  spotted  leopard  of  the  brook 

Lurks  for  his  prey  in  every  shaded  nook. 
With  ruffled  crest  and  sharp,  discordant  cries, 

The  feathered  fisher  flits  from  limb  to  limb. 
Into  the  fret  and  foam  the  ouzel  flies, 

Above  the  nether  pool  the  swallows  skim. 
This  is  the  gate-way — and  on  either  hand 

The  fragments  of  colossal  cliffs.     I  climb 
From  rock  to  rock,  until  at  last  I  stand 

Upon  the  ragged  battlements  of  time. 
The  earth's  historian  is  death;  and  here, 


139 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


From  age  to  age,  are  stamped  the  records 

of  the  past. 
Man  and  his  handiwork  may  disappear, 

But  these  shall  last  as  long  as  time  shall  last. 
In  the  archaic  years  the  glacier's  fangs 

Laid  bare  these  granite  ribs,  and  ground  to 
dust 

The  concrete  layers  of  the  lava  crust. 
Rents,  riven  by  the  earthquake,  mark  the  pangs 

Of  nature  and  reveal  to  us  the  throes 
Of  earth.     These  rounded  domes,  these  cloud- 
capped  spires, 

Congealed  and  moulded  into  grand  repose, 
Bespeak  the  fury  of  volcanic  fires. 

Down  the  long  pathway  of  the  ages  time 
Has  wrought  with  magic  touch,  transmuting  all 

The  fearful  splendors  of  creation's  prime. 
And  as  the  aeons  rolled  away,  the  pall 

Was  lifted  from  the  sea  and  land,  and  life 

Was  born  of  death,  the  elemental  strife 
Was  hushed,  the  Voice  Divine  was  heard,  peace 

reigned, 
And  beauty  blossomed  in  the  earth.     Ordained 

By  some  fixed  law,  the  seasons  come  and  go. 
The  wind-sown  seeds  in  desert  places  sleep. 

Until  the  sunbeams  kiss  the  dust,  when  lo ! 
140 


^ 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

, _____^:T>— -~ —- — 


The  hidden  germs  are  stirred,  the  heavens  weep, 

And  life  triumphant  springs  from  last  year's 

tomb. 
Into  the  crannied  rocks  the  lichens  creep, 

Along  the  crater's  rim  the  roses  bloom. 
The  streams,  from  winter's  icy  chain  set  free 

And  fed  by  falling  rain  and  melting  snow, 

Rush  down  the  ice-worn  water-ways  and  flow 
In  melted  music  to  the  summer  sea. 

Within   the  mountain's  lap  enshrined, 
And  where  the  falling  waters  wake 

A  thousand  echoes  from  the  cliffs,  I  find 
A  rock  imprisoned  lake; 

Locked   in   a    glacier's   tomb,    it   lies   asleep, 
Belted  by  firs  and  fringed  with  water-plants ; 
Upon  its  shining  disk  the  sunbeams  dance 

And  from  its  polished  lip  the  rapids  leap.. 
Seen  through  the  water's  cool  eclipse,  behold, 

Suspended   in   its   calm,   unruffled  breast, 
The  hanging  outlines  of  the  dusky  wold 

And  the  inverted  headlands  of  the  crest. 
Lured  by  the  wild  seclusion  of  the  place, 
Its  savage  grandeur  and  its  tender  grace; 

Lulled  by  the  ripple  of  the  wind  and  tide, 

The  incense  and  the  song  of  birds,  I  bide 
A  blissful  moment ;  and  as  I  depart 
141 


./; 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


I  turn  from  thee,  O  tranquil  lake,  and  hide 
A  picture  and  a  poem  in  my  heart. 
Three  hours,  at  least,  since  dawn  and  here  we 

are; 
Ten  miles,  o'er  mount  and  moor,  as  flies  the 

crow, 

The  skulking  covey  now  is  near  at  hand; 
My  dogs  have  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar, 
How  quick  they  catch  the  scent,  how  staunch 

they  stand, 

Steady,  my  faithful  Bess — to-ho — to-ho! 
And  even  as  I  speak  the  grey  cock  springs, 
Bursts  through  the  tangled  brake  with  whir  of 

wings 

And  drops,  dead  bird,  upon  the  heath  below. 
Once  more,  my  mottled  beauties,  left  and  right 
Two  well-directed  shots  have  stopped  your 

flight; 
The  heart  does  penance,  but  the  hand  will 

kill. 
Good  dog — dead  bird — go  seek — dead  bird,  I 

say. 

By  Jove,  another,  and — another  still, 
Steady,  my  braves,  there's  gallant  sport  to-day. 
And  so,  on  rapid  wings,  the  hours  go  by; 
I  little  heed  the  moments  as  they  fly. 

142 

m 


. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  covert  we  have  beaten  o'er  and  o'er 
Have   flushed   a  score    of  birds,   at   least,   and 
more. 

High  noon  is  blazing  on  the  purple  crest ; 

Call  in  the  panting  dogs,  I  fain  would  rest. 
The  fevered  land  lies   throbbing  in   the   heat ; 

And  I  will  seek  some  quiet  cloister-shade, 

Some  leafy  mosque  with  arabesque  inlaid. 
'Tis  but  a  step  to  yonder  still  retreat, 

Where  screens  of  silken  canopies  invite 

To  cool  siestas  in  the  chastened  light. 
There  are  no  frowning  gates  to  bar  the  way; 

I  hear  no  warder's  challenge  as  I  pass ; 

Latticed  with  leaves  and  carpeted  with  grass, 
Its  sylvan  doors  are  open  to  the  day. 

I  cross  the  threshold  of  this  leaf-line  nest, 

And  find  myself  at  once  a  welcome  guest. 
No  host  receives  me  with  a  smiling  face, 

But  rare  civilities  have  no  surcease. 
I  an!  the  sole  possessor  of  the  place, 

To  break  my  bread  and  drink  my  wine  in 

peace. 

My  dogs  beside  me,  couched  upon  the  sward, 
I  sit  me  down  to  lunch  like  any  lord. 

There  is  no  sauce  like  appetite,  I  ween ; 

And  I  have  dined  and  wined  enough  to  be  aware 

H3 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


That  brimming  cups  and  lengthy  bills  of  fare 

Will  not  disperse  the  vapors  of  the  spleen ; 
For  while  amid  the  salvos  of  the  feast 

A  man  may  half  forget  his  galling  chain, 
Whene'er  this  brief  oblivion  has  ceased 

There   comes,  as   recompense,   an    afterpain. 
And  so,  to  fly  the  lure  of  tempting  ills, 
I  take  betimes  to  tent-life  on  the  hills. 

There  we  obey  the  mandate,  "Kill  and  eat,'' 
Because  no  meagre  diet  will  suffice 

When   health   and  hunger  by  the    camp-fire 

meet. 
First,  from  the  hanging  haunch  a  tender  slice 

Broiled  on  the  glowing  embers  to   a  turn, 

And  then,  impaled  where  blazing  fagots  burn, 
A  bird  or  two,  by  timely  shot  brought  down, 
Larded  with  bits  of  bacon,  crisp  and  brown. 

What  if  the  fare  be  plain,  the  service  crude, 
We  have  a  wealth  of  appetite  at  least ; 

And  last  of  all,  to  cheer  the  solitude, 

A  cup  of  camp-brewed  coffee,  amber-hued, 
Which  is  the  crowning  glory  of  the  feast. 

And  then,  at  night,  the  song,  the  laugh,  the 
jest, 

The  camp-fire  tales  related  with  a  zest : 
How  in  the  jungle  someone  chanced  to  meet 
144 


S3 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 
s?*r^ 


The  shaggy  monster  with  the  shuffling  feet, 
And  how  discretion  sought  a  safe  retreat. 

Hard  by  the  stream,  beside  the  antlered  oak. 
The  wolf  beneath  my  waistcoat  fast  asleep, 

From   my   post-prandial   pipe   the    coils    of 

smoke 
Unwind  and  vanish  in  the  upper  deep. 

Unmindful  of  the  pendent  sword,  mayhap, 
In  dreamy  lassitude  at  ease  I  lie 

Upon  the  moorland's  aromatic  lap, 
And  scan  the  vast  abyss  of  shoreless  sky. 

Away,  upon  the  outmost  verge  of  sight, 

The  livelong  day,  at  that  far  height, 
An  eagle,  resting  on  his  wings, 
Wheels  round  and  round  in  circling  rings. 

In  pensive  mood  I  turn  my  half-closed  eyes 
Across  the  hazy  lowlands,  leagues  away, 
Where  dim  ethereal  ramparts,  vast  and  gray, 

Rise,  Alps  on  Alps,  against  the  vaulted  skies. 
I  mark  the  splendid  sweep  of  plain  below, 

The  miles  on  miles  of  undulating  hills, 

The  darker  gorges  of  the  upland  rills, 
The   sinuous    curves   where   tree-fringed   rivers 
flow. 

Mid-summer  days   have  tanned  the   valley's 
hide, 

145 

A] 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  draped  the  mountain's  corrugated  side 

In  dappled  robes  of  gold  and  green  and  dun. 

Where  heat-waves  wimple  in  the  noonday  sun, 

White  farmsteads  nestle  under  brooding  trees 

And  gleam  like  white  sails  on  the  wrinkled 

seas. 

Stout-hearted  nomads,  from  far  distant  lands, 
Have  pitched  their  tents  and  lit  their  camp- 
fires  here; 
And  though  the  thirsty  fields  are  brown  and 

sere, 

An  ample  harvest  waits  on  willing  hands. 
Time  was  whene'er  the  ardent  sun  rode  by, 
May  blushed  the  while  and  breathed  a  fragrant 

sigh. 

Then  came  the  passion  of  imperial  June, 
As  morn  is  followed  by  the  fervid  noon, 
And  then  the  tawny  splendor  of  July. 

Metallic    lustres    brighten    as    the    summer 

wanes, 
The  sky  itself  is  like  a  sea  of  glass, 

The    snow-fed    streams    are    links    of    silver 

chains, 

The  rounded  hills  are  waves  of  molten  brass. 
Where   erst  the   earth  was   clad   in   rainbow 
hues 

K6 


JSh. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 

—— ==d£^ 


And  gilded  insects  wrapped  themselves  in  fire, 
Now  Flora  dies  upon  her  kindled  pyre, 

And  all  the  pageantry  of  death  ensues. 
In  the  still  half-light  of  the  nearer  shade, 

Where    sunbeams   filter    through   the   leaves, 

behold! 
The  summer's  pall,  the  autumn's  masquerade, 

The  dead  year's  cast-off  garments  turned  to 

gold. 
Here  I  escape  the  world's  discordant  noise, 

The   burden   of  the  nights,  which  bring  no 
rest; 

No  palms  appeal  to  me,  no  toilsome  quest 
For  wealth  or  fame ;  in  blissful  equipoise 

I  lie  content  on  nature's  tranquil  breast. 
The  calm  repose  of  perfect  peace  abounds. 

I  hear  the  breeze  coquetting  with  the  trees, 

The  hum  of  myriad  wings,  the  drone  of  bees, 
And  fill  my  heart  with  these  delightful  sounds. 

Lulled  by  the  woodland's  weird  aeolian  lyre, 
And  the  delicious  babble  of  the  streams, 
I  fold  my  listless  hands  and  dream  my  dreams, 

Unvexed  by  doubt,  unruffled  by  desire. 
No  longer  worldly  wise,  I  hold  a  sweet 

Communion  with  the  bee  and  bird  and  flower. 
Speech  fails  and  falters  when  I  would  repeat 
147 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


The  wondrous  harmonies  of  this  glad  hour. 
I  know,  and  only  know,  that  as  I  kneel 

In  silent  ecstasy  upon  the  sod, 
I  listen  with  my  inmost  soul,  and  feel 

No  discords  in  the  orchestras  of  God. 

The  banners  which  at  morn  assailed  the  east 
Now  trail  in  burnished  pomp   along  the  west. 

The    vesper    song    of    birds    has    well-nigh 

ceased, 
And  tranquil  nature  lulls  herself  to  rest. 

Already  twilight  lurks  within  the  wold, 
So  swift  the  hours  have  flown  on  silken  wings. 

The  waning  daylight  sows  its  dust  of  gold, 
And  on  the  crest  a  fitful  splendor  flings. 

As  rapid  hours  complete  the  ripened  dav, 
The  new  moon's  sickle  reaps  the  yellow  sheaf. 

Whate'er  betide  of  good  or  ill,   alway 
My  book  of  life  has  one  illumined  leaf. 


148 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE  DEATH  OF  AL  HARITH 

AL  HAMADANI,  wonder  of  his  time, 
Relates  how  Harith,  blessed  with  goodly  store, 
The  owner  of  a  hundred  steeds  and  more, 
Grown  overwise  and  restless  in  his  prime, 
Set  sail  upon  the  desert  seas  of  yore. 
From  Irak  to  Damascus,  bold  of  wing, 
He  braves  the  tongue   of  flame,  the   simoon's 

blast ; 

Backward  the  iron  hoofs  of  his  coursers  fling 
The  dust  of  travel,  till  he  stands  at  last 
Beside  the  blessed  gate  of  Illah,  where 
The   shining   city   sits   beneath   the   palms. 
His  face  towards  Mecca  first,  he  bows  in  prayer, 
As  all  good  Moslems  should,  bestows  his  alms, 
And  then  betakes  him  to  the  bath;  then  pays 
His  service  to  the  Kadi,  to  express, 
With  due  decorum,  all  the  grave  excess 
Of  Oriental  greeting;  length  of  days, 
Increase  of  store — for  thus,  in  Eastern  lands, 
With  gracious   speech,  the  Moslem  greets  his 

guest. 

And  so  the  son  of  Irak  folds  his  hands 
And  sits  him  down  by  Syrian  streams  to  rest. 

149 


W  |^p=====r=S= sssasssas^Q 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


To  Oriental  ears  no  sound  so  sweet 

As  sound  of  running  waters ;  while  he  makes 

The  pilgrimage  of  life  in  dust  and  heat, 

He  fondly  hopes,  whene'er  his  soul  awakes 

In  Paradise,  to  realize  his  dreams 

Of  singing  bulbuls  and  of  babbling  streams. 

Damascus,  gold  within  and  grime  without, 
With  here  and  there  a  narrow,  tortuous  street, 
Through  which  the  living  tides  flow  in  and  out. 
We  catch  a  glimpse  of  palms  above  the  walls, 
And  in  the  transient  hush  of  hurrying  feet 
We  hear  the  tinkling  tones  of  waterfalls. 
Within  the  portals,  sheltered  from  the  heat 
When  sultry  days   succeed  to  lustrous  dawns, 
Are  cool  arcades  where  shining  waters  run, 
And  tesselated  courts,  and  terraced  lawns, 
And  marble  fountains,  flashing  in  the  sun. 
'Twas  much  the  same  a  thousand  years  ago. 
The  dreamy  Moslem  life  pulsed  to  and  fro 
In  the  same  sensual  round,  when  Harith  found 
Irs     mosques     and     market     places     crescent- 
crowned. 

A  mart  of  splendor  by  a  sea  of  sand, 
Her  khans  were  filled   with   wares   from  every 
land: 

150 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Spices     and    gums,    frankincense,    musk,    and 

myrrh, 

Amber  and  coral  from  the  Indian  seas ; 
Brocades   and   arabesques   from   Nishampur, 
Inwrought  with  gold  and  silver  filigrees  ; 
Embroidered   silks   and  satins,   rare   perfumes, 
Rubies  from  Ava,  pearls  from  Hindustan; 
Cambrics  and  tapestries  from  Persian  looms, 
Caftans  from  Fez,  and  shawls  from  Khorasan. 
Rivers  of  wine  and  oil  ran  down  the  streets, 
While,    tossed    and    travel-stained,    the    desert 

fleets, 

With  freights  from  Egypt,  Khiva  and  Cathay, 
Beside  her  sacred  gates  at  anchor  lay. 

Hot  is  the  heart  of  youth;  what  wonder,  then, 
As  in  his  veins  the  streams  of  molten  lava  leap, 
That  he   of  Irak  should,  like   other  men, 
Forget  the  words  of  wisdom  and,  despite 
The  warnings  of  the  Prophet,  fall  asleep 
In  some  forbidden  palace  of  delight? 
Meanwhile    the    moons    of    Syria    waxed    and 

waned ; 

And  he,  enchanted  first  and  then  enchained, 
A  willing  slave  in  silken  meshes  lay 

151 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Where    broad-browed    nymphs    with    sombrous 

waves  of  hair 
And   lustrous   eyes   that  shunned  the   light   of 

day, 

Like  Venus  veiled  in  phantom  robes  of  spray, 
Were  idly  swaying  in  the  perfumed  air. 
Change  follows   change  in  all  material  things ; 
The  dawn  gives  place  to  day,  the  day  to  night. 
Our  treasures,  as  the  Prophet  says,  have  wings 
And,    like    t-he    mists    of    morning,    take    their 

flight. 

Love  tires  of  its  delicious  pain,  and  power 
Is  but  the  fleeting  phantom  of  an  hour. 
Perhaps    the    still    small    voice    by    night    was 

heard, 
Which  comes  to  us  unbidden  and  unsought; 

i  Perhaps  the  ghost  of  loves  forsaken  stirred 

Once  more  the  turbid  current  of  his  thought. 
If  vows  were  made,  or  expiation  done, 
The  text  does  not  disclose,  nor  can  we  tell; 
But  this  we  know,  he  broke  the  Circean  spell, 
And  swore  by  Allah  that  the  morrow's  sun 
Should  see  him  on  his  way.    And  when  the  dawn 
With  rosy  fingers  had  in  part  withdrawn 
The  mantle  of  the  night,  he  stole  away, 
Leaving  the  dancers  at  their  revels  still, 
152 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


And  with  his  camel-drivers  waited  till 
The  earth  unveiled  before  the  full-orbed  day. 
Beyond  the  gates,  beside  the  sacred  well, 
In  abject  squalor,  on  his  leathern  mat 
Abu  Ben  Zayd,  the  prince  of  beggars,  sat, 
And  told  his  wondrous  tales  and  sought  to  sell 
His  amulets:     "This,  from  the  holy  shrine, 
Will  guard  thee,  son  of  Islam,  from  thy  foes ; 
And  this — peace  be  with  thee  and  thine — 
Will  comfort  thy  distress  and  soothe  thy  woes ; 
And    this — if    thou     shouldst     chance     to     go 

astray — 

Will  lead  thee  safely  back."    "Upon  my  word," 
Al  Harith  said,  "I  do  believe 
Thou  liest;  and  as  the  spider  weaves  his  web 

for  prey, 

So  thou  dost  weave  these  pretexts  to  deceive." 
The  Prophet  in  the  seventh  heaven  heard 
The  impious  scoff,  the  dervish  bowed  his  head. 
"Illah  il'  Allah!"   God  is   great,   he   said. 

A  steel-blue  sky  above,  and  on  either  hand, 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  a  sea  of  sand. 
In  all  of  the  great  white  space  no   sound   or 
sight ; 


153 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Only  the  glare  of  day,  only  the  hush  of  night. 

Curses  have  followed  like  wolves  as  they  march 

Day  after  day,  under  the  arch 

Of  the  pitiless  sky;  no  joy  and  no  rest, 

For  omens  are  thick  in  the  thin  white  air ; 

And  the  camel-drivers  forget  to  jest 

When  Fear  looks  into  the  face  of  Care. 

In  the  door  of  his  tent  Al  Harith  sits, 

And  his  face  wears  a  troubled  look,  for  lo! 

On  the  rim  of  the  desert  a  shadow  flits 

And  it  seems  like  the  cloud  of  the  coming  foe. 

He  hears  their  hoof-beats  nearer  and  more 

near; 

No  hope  in  flight;  and  paralyzed  with  fear, 
He  calls  on  Allah,  but  he  calls  in  vain. 
Across  the  wide  expanse  of  arid  plain 
Full  half  a  hundred  horsemen  dash ; 
And  foremost,  where  the  circling  sabres  flash. 
Behold!  the  face  of  him  who  sought  to  sill 
The  amulets  beside  the  sacred  well. 

Ten  centuries  attest  the  force  of  this 
One  sabre  stroke. 

In  all  the  eastern  lands 


154 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

^^  =^^iis^fc=^ 


Abu  Ben  Zayd  is  held  in  high  repute, 
Because  he  fixed  the  faith  in  amulets 
And  gave  to  every  canting  mendicant, 
From  Mecca  to  Stamboul,  this  poor  pretext 
To  make  a  merchandise  of  piety. 
The  Prophet  says :     "Give  ear,  O  sons  of  men ! 
Obey  the  precepts  of  the  faith,  and  then 
Accept  the  preordained  decrees  of  fate." 
"Illah  IP  Allah !"    Only  God  is  great. 


155 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


DOM  PERIGNON 

(The   Discoverer   of   Champagne) 

CROSSING  the  purple  hills  of  Epernay, 

Hard  by  the  little  thorp  of  Haut  Villicr, 
Just  where  the  winding  river  blocks  the  way, 

A  gray  old  ruin  you  may  chance  to  see, 
Long  since  the  famous  Abbey  of  Saint  Pierre, 

But  erst  the   castle-keep  of  chivalry ; 
Where  broad-arched   portals  led   to   columned 
courts, 

With  terraces,  and  lawns,  and  blazoned  halls, 
And  list  for  jousts  of  arms,  and  manly  sports; 

While,  pendent  from  its  battlemented  walls, 
The  oriflamme  of  France  flashed  on  the  sight. 

Fresh  from  his  conquests  in  the  Holy  Land, 
His  casque  and  corselet  cast  aside,  the  knight 

Bent  here  above  his  lady's  jeweled  hand; 
And  here,  of  old,  did  valiant  men  at  arms 

Their  wassails  and  their  drinking  bouts  pro 
long 
From  dark  till  dawn — instead  of  war's  alarms, 

The  gust  of  laughter  and  the  gush  of  song. 
Along  these  corridors  their  iron  heels  rang, 

And  here,  on  festive  nights  and  tilting  days, 
156 


. 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


His  harp  in  hand,  the  wandering  minstrel  sang 

His  madrigals  and  tender  roundelays. 
Here,  too,  the  jester  in  his  cap  and  bells, 

With    licensed    leer,    assailed    pretense    and 

sham, 

Played   carte  and  tierce  with  mediaeval   swells 
And  stabbed  them  with  a  well-turned  epigram. 
But  knight  and  minstrel  and  my  lady  fair 
Gave  place  to  cowled  monks.     Some  one  has 

said: 
"The    pen    is    mightier    than    the    sword,    and 

prayer 
More    potent    than    the    monarch's    crowned 

head," 
And  so  it  seems;  for,  like  a  king  of  kings, 

The  priest  became  the  potentate  of  France — 
Held   court   and   crown   and   state   in   leading 

strings, 
Made  war  and  peace,  yet  never  lifted  lance. 

Who  could  foretell  the  change  that  was  to  be 
From  rocky  caves  to  grand  cathedral  aisles, 

And  from  the  manger  to  the  Papal  See? 
Beneath  the  domes  of  consecrated  piles 

A  treasure  trove  has  been  preserved  for  us ; 

157 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


For  music,  marble,  canvas  could,  in  part, 
Repeat  the  story  of  the  cross,  and  thus 

The  Church  became  the  very  shrine  of  art. 
At  first,  the  monk  could  worship  in  his  cell, 

Without  the  ritual  of  form  and  cant, 
The  burning  taper  and  the  tinkling  bell, 

The  swinging  censor  and  the  solemn  chant. 
He  gave  his  life  to  prayer  and  holy  thought ; 

And  when  the  enemy  of  souls  enticed, 
With  scourge   and  fast,  on  bended  knees,  be 
sought 

The  Virgin  Mother  and  the  risen  Christ. 
Not  so  our  brotherhood  of  jovial  fame. 

They  ate  with  toothsome  zest  the  rich  repast ; 

Were  bacchanals  in  fact  and  monks   in   name, 

And  loved   the   feast  much   better  than    the 

fast. 
They    cried:      "Give    us    this    day    our    daily 

bread," 

Which  meant  fat  capon  for  monastic  greed ; 
And  then  they  gathered  tithes,  waxed  fat,  and 

fed 
The  hinds  on  husks  of  faith  and  crumbs  of 

creed. 

But  who  will  dare  to  say  they  were  not  wise, 
If  for  themselves  they  killed  the  fatted  calf? 
158 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Not  I,  at  least ;  for  I  have  learned  that  half 
The  fine-spun  theories  which  men  devise 
Are  only  snares,  in  short,  for  catching  flies. 
The  monastery  lands  were  deftly  tilled; 

From  year  to  year  the  Friars  leased  the  soil, 
Received  therefor  the  lion's  share,  and  filled 

The  Abbey  bins  with  corn  and  wine  and  oil. 
Dom  Perignon,  purveyor  of  the  vaults, 

With  reputation  reaching  to  our  day — 

Like   Sancho   Panza's   uncle,  so    they  say — 
Could  tell  at  once  the  virtues  and  the  faults 

Of  every  drop  of  wine  produced;  and  knew 

The  kinds  of  grape,  the  hillsides  where  they 
grew, 

The  modicum  of  sun  and  rain  and  dew, 
With  just  the  proper  mixing  to  impart 

The  flavor  which  the  epicures  require. 
His  brain,  perhaps,  was  sluggish,  but  his  heart 

Was  like  his  wine — full  of  imprisoned  fire. 

Who  knows  the  fermentation  of  desire, 

Which   fumed   and   fretted   day   and    night, 
unseen, 

Beneath  the  Friar's  unkempt  gabardine? 

Some    golden   years    gone    by    ere    jouth   had 
flown, 

159 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


And  ere  youth's  oaten  follies  had  been  sown, 

In  that  gay  capital  of  La  Belle  France, 
It  was  my  wont,  at  times,  to  stroll  about 
The   haunts   where  madcap-students   sing   and 
shout, 

And  where  with  gay  grisettes  they  dance. 
In  an  old  cafe  by  the  sluggish  Seine, 
Two  close  converging  streets  between, 
Where  these  wild  roisterers  oft  did  congregate, 
His  portrait  hangs,  or  there  it  hung  of  late. 
In  half  a  dozen  dashes  of  the  pen 

I'll  try  to  sketch  the  likeness  of  the  man — 

That  is,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can ; 
And  if  I  fail,  why  then — what  then? 

With  some  small  share  of  tact  and  less   of 
art, 

UAnd  more  of  that  old  Saxon  gift  called  knack, 
As  in  charades,  I'll  improvise  a  part 
And  dress  it  from  my  store  of  bric-a-brac. 
And  first,  the  part  most  prominent,  in  fine, 
I'll  take  this  Arab  wine-skin  filled  with  wine 
And  hang  it  here  upon  the  smoky  wall 
Above  these  Roman  sandals;  over  all 
I'll  drape  this  Friar's  frowsy  gown, 
And   last,   this   masker's    face — a   full-orbed 
moon — 

160 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


And  the   sketch   Is   done,   from   the    shaven 

crown 
To  the  soles  of  the  sandal-shoon. 

Now,  I'll  be  bound,  you  thought  of  course  to 
see 

Some  thin  aesthetic  saint  on  prayers  intent, 
And  not  this  counterfeit  of  piety. 

Small  doubt,  indeed,  but  he  must  needs  re 
pent — 
In  fact,  but  for  his  priestly  robe,  I  fear 

He  would  be  deemed  an  arrant  sinner, 
Far  less  concerned  about  his  vows  austere 

Than  for  the  flavor  of  his  dinner. 
But  then,  all  men  are  prone  to  sin,  you  know, 
And  monks,  at  best,  are  only  men;  and  so 
They  wrap  themselves  in  sackcloth,  while  they 

line 

Their  ample  gowns  with  capon  and  with  wine. 
Concede  that  to  the  priestly  robe  there  clings 

An  odor  of  sanctity,  if  you  will; 
We  find  that  an  angel  without  his  wings 

Is  only  a  mortal  in  dishabille. 
A  truce  to  dull  polemics.     You  shall  see 

That   not  by   constant   prayer  and   self-re 
straint 

161 


T 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Did  Padre  Perignon  become  the  saint 
Of  social  Sybarites,  like  you  and  me. 
But  thus  it  came  to  pass  one  day 
A  cask  of  vapid  Epernay — 
Which  he  betimes  had  fortified 

With   syrup   and   with   eau-devie — 
Made  mad  with  effervescing  pride, 

Burst  its   frail  bonds   exultingly. 
Some  drops  fell  on  the  Friar's  lips, 
His  hand  into  the  flood  he  dips, 
And  lo,  a  miracle !     He  sips 
The  drink  divine,  with  wonder  quaffs 
A  living  wine  that  leaps   and  laughs. 
Pale,  phosphorescent  spark  that  lights 

A  sensuous  flame  refined  and  rare. 
All  hail,  O  Monk !  thy  neophytes 

Are  demigods — or  think  they  are. 
Look  to  thy  laurels,  Bacchus!  crown  anew 
Thy  cups  with  garlands;  for  thy  wine  has 

caught 
A  rarer  spirit  and  a  richer  hue 

From  this  fat  Friar's  accidental  thought. 

We  sjied  no  hackneyed,  ill-timed  tears 

Upon  an   old  monastic  tomb, 
But  pour  libations  on  a  shrine. 
162 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


His  name  from  out  the  cloistered  gloom, 
Borne  on  the  tossing  tide  of  wine, 

Drifts  down  the  cycle  of  the  years. 
Amid  the  salvos  of  the  feast 
Let  all  good  bacchanals,  at  least, 
In  silence  toast  the  jocund  priest. 


16$ 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


A  FACE 


I  MET  a  maiden  on  the  street — 

I  knew  another  long  ago — 
And  as  she  passed  with  tripping  feet, 

I  looked,  and  Ip ! 
I  saw  the  face  I  used  to  know. 

The  winsome  smile,  so  rare  and  sweet, 
The  downcast  eyes,  the  cheeks  aglow: 

Ah  me,  it  made  my  old  heart  beat, 
Though  well  I  know 

That  on  her  grave  the  daisies  grow. 


164 


TRANSLATIONS 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


ALONE 

(From  the  German) 

THE  night  wind  is  lifting  its  wings  once  more 

And  sighing  and  soughing  among  the  reeds ; 

The  brambles  are  thick  and  my  feet  are  sore, 

And  the   path  is   dim  and   my   poor   heart 

bleeds. 

I  hear  from  the  tower,  like  the  knell  of  woe, 
The  clang  of  the  clock,  with  its   one,  two, 
three ; 

Out  into  the  night  and  the  storm  I  go, 

For  no  firelight  gleams  on  the  hearth  for  me. 

The  heavens  are  dark  and  the  fog  drops  down, 
And  my   heart  is  weak,  which  was  once  so 
strong; 

I  can  see  the  far-off  lights  of  the  town, 

But  my  feet  are  worn  and  the  way  is  long. 

Oh,  if,  when  it  comes  to  the  end  at  last, 

After  night,  and  silence,  and  vain  surmise, 
I  could  find  you  waiting,  as  in  the  past, 

With  your   smiling  lips   and  your   beaming 
eyes ! 

167 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

f_ 

.  •  J 

! 

ROSETTE 

(After    Ber  anger) 

IN  this,  the  heyday  of  your  youth, 

How  can  you  sit  and  prate,  my  dear, 
Of  love  and  faith  to  one,  forsooth, 

Whose  forty  years  are  in  the  sear? 
Time  was  when  my  fond  heart  could  pay 

Its  vows  to  one  obscure  grisette; 
Ah  me !  if  only  I,  to-day, 

Could  love  you  as  I  loved  Rosette. 

Your  grand  equipage  serves  to  show 

The  silks  and  diamonds  which  you  wear; 
Rosette,  Rosette,  her  cheeks  aglow, 

Tripped  by  with  roses  in  her  hair. 
Her  eyes,  despite  my  jealous   "Nay," 

Provoked  a  word  from  all  we  met; 
Ah,  me !  if  only  I,  to-day, 

Could  love  you  as  I  loved  Rosette. 

. 
In  your  boudoir,  with  satin  lined, 

The  mirrors  show  your  smiling  face ; 
In  her  wee  glass  I  used  to  find 
The  image  of  a  new-born  Grace. 
168 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


No  curtains  barred  the  morning  ray, 
And  stars  peeped  in  when  sun  had  set ; 

Ah,  me!  if  only  I,  to-day, 

Could  love  you  as  I  loved  Rosette. 

Your  wit  and  fancy  flash,  until 

The  poet's  heart  is  somehow  stirred ; 
I  do  not  blush  to  own  it,  still 

Rosette  could  scarcely  read  a  word. 
Her  simple  speech  sufficed  alway 

To  tell  her  love,  and  yet,  and  yet, 
Ah,  me !  if  only  I,  to-day, 

Could  love  you  as  I  loved  Rosette. 

Her   charms  were   less   than   yours,   God   wot, 

She  may  have  loved  me  more,  although 
I  must  confess  her  eyes  had  not 

The  fire  of  passion  yours  can  show; 
But  then  she  had,  I  fain  must  say, 

My  youth,  which  I  perhaps  regret ; 
Ah,  me !  if  only  I,  to-day, 

Could  love  you  as  I  loved  Rosette. 


169 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


CARMEN 

(From  the  French  of  Theophile  Gautier) 

DARK   rings   encircle  her  gypsy  eyes, 
And  her  figure  is  scrawny  and  thin  ; 

Her  hair  is  black  as  the  midnight  skies, 
And  the  devil  has  tanned  her  skin. 

Men  rave  about  her,  but  women  swear 

She  is  ugly  as  ugly  can  be; 
They  even  hint  in  Toledo  there 

That  the  bishop  chants  mass  at  her  knee. 

Her  piquant  plainness  may  have,  who  knows  ? 

A  grain  of  salt  from  the  self-same  seas, 
Whence  nude,  erewhile,  to  the  crest  she  rose 

A  racy  Venus  to  tempt  and  tease. 


170 


^ST 
AND   OTHER   POEMS 


THE  KING  HIMSELF  FOREMOST 
OF   ALL 

(From  the  German  of  N.  v.  Strachwitz) 

KING  STYRBJORN  sailed  down  to  the  Sastne 

strand ; 

He  swore  he  would  seize  on  the  Swedish  land ; 
Then    swords    and    shields    on    the    deck   were 

flung, 

And  into  the  water  the  heroes  sprung, 
The  King  himself  foremost  of  all. 

King  Styrbjorn  said:     "Lo!  the  vultures  draw 

nigh, 

It  is  ours  to  fight,  and  never  to  fly ; 
That  none  be  tempted  hereafter  to  turn, 
Behind  us  to-day  our  ships  we  will  burn ; 
The  ship  of  the  King  first  of  all." 

King  Styrbjorn  cast  first  the  flaming  brand, 
Red  gleamed  the  ocean  and  red  the  land ; 
And  when  the  fire  flickered  and  died  at  last, 
Each  hero  laid  hold  of  his  spear  full  fast, 
The  King  himself  foremost  of  all. 

171 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


They  met  by  Tyriswall,  fierce  was  the  fight, 
The  day  was  stormy,  but  silent  the  night ; 
None  turned  to  the  ships,  none  turned  to  the 

coast, 

Down  went  the  hero  and  down  went  the  host, 
The  King  himself  foremost  of  all. 


172 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


FLAMINCA 

(From  the  German   of  Emanuel   von   Geibel) 

NO  more  her  dark  brown  limbs  are  seen 
As  in  the  dance  they  madly  whirl ; 

No  more  she  strikes  the  tambourine, 
Flaminca  blithe,  the  Gypsy  Girl. 

A  scarlet  fillet  bound  her  hair, 

In  silken  shoes  her  twinkling  feet ; 

But  now  she  sleeps,  the  Wild  Rose,  where 
The  tangled  boughs  above  her  meet. 

Bide  not  the  hawthorn-tree  beside ! 

Give  heed,  ye  lads,  if  ye  are  wise ! 
For  flames  leap  forth,  since  she  has  died, 

From  out  the  earth  where  now  she  lies. 

'Tis  said  her  form  sometimes  appears 
When  odors  on  the  night  air  stir, 

And  with  her  longing  eyes  she  sears 
The  heart  of  him  who  looks  on  her. 


173 


¥ 

THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


REMEMBRANCE 

(From  the  German  of  Heine) 

WHAT  wilt  thou,   mournful   vision   dear  and 
olden ; 

I  feel  thy  very  breath  and  gaze  on  thee ; 
I  am  by  thee  with  doleful  eyes  beholden ; 

I  know  thee,  and  alas,  thou  knowest  me. 

I  am  a  way-worn  man,  my  limbs  a-weary 

Have     lost     their     strength,     my     heart     is 

scorched  and  sere; 
Care  weighs  me  down,  my  days  are  dark  and 

dreary ; 
It  was  not  thus  when  first  I  found  thee  here. 

In  haughty  strength  I  left  the  home  seclusion 
To   tramp   the   wide   world   o'er,   and  would 
assault 

The  gates  celestial,  in  my  mad  delusion, 

And  tear  the  very  stars  from  Heaven's  vault. 


174 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


Frankfort  doth  foster  fools  and  knaves,  I  know 

it, 

And  yet  she  gave — for  this  I  love  her  well — 
Many  good  Kaisers  and  our  greatest  poet ; 
And  there  I  found  my  love  where  she   did 
dwell. 

I  strolled  along  the  Ziel  amid  the  bustle ; 

There  was  a  fair,  with  all  its  fuss  and  feud ; 
The    motley    throng    went    by    with    rush    and 
rustle, 

And  I  looked  idly  on  in  dreaming  mood. 

I  saw  her  there,  with  shy  delighted  wonder, 
And   watched   her   swaying   form    that   self 
same  hour ; 

Her  happy  eyes,  the  long  dark  lashes  under, 
Attracted  me  with  such  unwonted  power. 

Through    street   and   market    then    I   followed 

after, 

Until  we  reached  a  cottage  by  and  by, 
The    sweet    one    turned,    and    with    a   flash    of 

laughter 
She  slipped  into  the  house,  and  so  did  I. 


175 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


The  aunt  was  vile,  would  even  sell  for  money 
This  maiden  flower  that  bloomed  so  sweetly 
there ; 

Although  the  child  gave  me  herself,  so  sunny, 
Without  a  single  sordid  thought,  I  swear. 

I  have  met  other  women  than  the  Muses, 

And  know  the  varnished  face,  the  artful  sigh ; 

Hers  was  no  breast  to  heave  whene'er  it  chooses, 
And  in  her  eyes,  by  Heaven,  there  was  no  lie. 

And  she  was  fair,  far  fairer  than  is  painted 
That  foam-begotten  Goddess  of  the  sea; 

Perchance  she  was  the  being  well-nigh  sainted 
Who  in  my   boyhood's  dreams   appeared  to 
me. 

I  knew  it  not  and  it  was  all  unheeded, 

Some  spell  entranced  me  with,  I  know  not 

what; 
Perchance   the   bliss    I   longed    for   and    most 

needed 
Was  in  my  arms,  and  yet  I  knew  it  not. 

And  she  was  fair,  far  fairer  in  her  anguish, 
When  after  three  days'  blissful  dream  I  fain 
176 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


Would  leave  the  heart  I  rested  on  to  languish, 
Because  the  old  mood  drove  me  forth  again. 

With  her  dishevelled  hair  about  her  flying 

And  mute  and  wild  appeals,  her  hands   she 
wrung ; 

Then  at  my  feet  she  cast  herself  and,  lying, 
Burst  into  tears  as  to  my  knees  she  clung. 

Ah  God !  her  blood,  would  I  have  seen  her  never, 
My  spur  had  caught  her  hair  upon  the  floor ; 

I  tore  myself  away  and  lost  forever 

My  darling  child,  and  never  saw  her  more. 

The  mood  is  gone,  upon  her  face  I  ponder, 
That  face,  where'er  I  am,  appears  to  me ; 

1*001-    child!    in    what    cold    desert    dost    them 

wander 
With  want  and  misery — my  gifts  to  thee? 


177 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  NOMADS 

(Translated  from  the  German  of  Herman  von 
Lingg) 

The  heath  lies  before  me  denuded  of  grass, 
And  over  the  steppe  flies  the  snow  as  I  pass, 
And  eaten  with  rust  are  the  spears  and  the 

swords ; 

Here  my  lance  will  I  lift  to  heaven  on  high 
And  call  from  the  north  and  the  south  with  a 

cry 
The  tribes  of  the  East,  the  wandering  hordes. 

Ye   hunters    of   wolves   where   the   Ural   peaks 

glow, 

Ye  herders  of  flocks  in  Death's  Valley  below, 
Ye  scouts  of  the  desert,  a  terrible  host, 
Ye  boatmen  who  hail  from  the  Caspian  coast, 
Lift  up  your  lances,  your  lances  so  bright, 
Your  banners  of  conquest  unfurl  for  the  fight ! 

Now   muster  the   horses  and  break   down   the 

tents, 
For  the  northern  lights  gleam  and  we  must  go 

hence ; 

178 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


We  will  pass  on  our  way  to  the  zones  of  the 

west, 

Our  watchword  the  cry  of  the  bird  on  the  wind, 
The  sands  of  the  desert  are  urging  behind, 

We  may  not  bide  here  and  we  never  can  rest. 

We  care  not  like  cravens  to  follow  the  plow, 
We  have  furrowed  the   earth  with  our  spears 

until  now ; 

A  conquering  people,  a  pitiless  power, 
Like  vultures  and  locusts  we  come  to  devour ; 
In  the  smoldering  ruins  where  cities  once  stood 
We  render  to  freedom  a  tribute  of  blood. 

And  when  we  have  conquered  and  garnered  our 

gain 
And  the  foemen  are  chanting  their  dirge   for 

the  slain 

We  mourn  not  in  sorrow,  we  wail  not  in  woe, 
Nor  build  we  a  tomb  for  the  heroes  that  died, 
The  snow  it  will  cover,  the  night  it  will  hide 
The  sanctifieol  horror  of  corpses  below. 


179 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


Where  flowers  were  once  blooming  now  eddies 

the  sand, 
The  sea  is  now  breaking  where  once  there  was 

land; 
Where  then  is  there  rest  for  the  dead  ones, 


• 

I  pray 


They  live  in  the   runes   and  the   songs  of  the 

race, 

They  dwell  in  the  glory  of  time  and  of  space, 
And  we  are  their  envoys  forever  and  aye. 


180 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 

DEDANS  PARIS 

(CLEMENT   MAROT,    1497-1544) 

IN  Paris  there,  brave  city,  where 

I  wandered  once,  weighed  down  with  care, 

Until  I  met,  by  chance,  one  day 

A  blithe  Italian  maid  so  gay 
With  whom  no  maiden  can  compare. 

She  hath  a  modest  mien  and  air, 
Her  truthful  eyes  are  not  a  snare — 
Whatever  others  do  or  say 
In  Paris  there. 

We  sealed  our  friendship  sweet  and  rare 
With  just  one  guileless  kiss,  I  swear; 
Her  name  I  never  will  betray, 
Enough  to  know  that  she  alway 
Is  my  fast  friend,  come  foul  or  fair, 
In  Paris  there. 


181 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

LET  THEM  DREAM 

(From  the  German) 

I  AND  the  ghost  of  midnight,  side  by  side, 

Stalk  up   and  down   these   silent   streets   at 

will; 

How  short  a  time  since  here  men  laughed  and 
cried — 

One  little  hour  ago — now  all  is  still. 
Erewhile  joy  vanished  like  a  cast-off  flower; 

The  empty  goblet  lies  beside  the  stream; 
Pale  sorrow  hid  away  at  twilight  hour ; 

The  world  is  tired,  so  let  it,  let  it  dream. 

My  hate  has  ceased,  my  wrath  has  taken  flight, 
As    when    at    night    the    storm-clouds    break 

awhile, 
The    peaceful    moon    looks    down    with    tender 

light 

And  gilds  the  withered  roses  with  her  smile. 
I  walk  these  silent  streets  with  bated  breath, 

I  hold  communion  with  myself ;  it  seems 
My    soul   would    almost    search    the    realm    of 

death 
To  solve  the  mystery  of  human  dreams. 

182 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


My  shadow  trails  behind  me  like  a  thief — 

Before  the  gloomy  prison  bars  I  stand — 
Thy  faithful  son,  in  bitter,  bitter  grief, 

Atones  his  love  for  thee,  O  Fatherland ! 
He  sleeps  and  dreams — what  chains  '  can  bind 
him  now? 

Dreams  of  a  hamlet  by  the  wooded  stream ; 
Dreams  that  the  victor's  crown  is  on  his  brow ; 

O  God  of  Justice,  let  the  captive  dream ! 

Before  me  towers  the  lofty  castle  keep ; 

Between  the  purple  curtains  I  can  see 
The  startled  Caesar  clutch  his  sword  in  sleep 

And  shudder  as  he  dreams  of  treachery. 
He  mutters  to  himself,  and  shrinks  with  fright ; 

His  pallid  face  is  plowed  with  many  a  seam ; 
A  thousand  steeds  are  saddled  for  his  flight ; 

O  God  of  Vengeance,  let  the  despot  dream ! 

The  cottage  by  the  brook,  how  small  it  seems ; 

Yet  want  and  worth  together  share  one  bed. 
The  Lord  will  let  his  vassal  dream  his  dreams — 

Such  fancies  serve  to  calm  his  waking  dread. 
When  slumber's  silken  meshes  are  unfurled 

He  sees  his  ample  cornfields'  golden  gleam. 


183 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 


His  narrow  homestead  widens  to  a  world ; 
O  God  of  Mercy,  let  the  poor  man  dream ! 

In  yonder  house,  upon  a  bench  of  stone, 

A  blessing  will  I  crave  and  rest  from  care ; 
J  love  thee  well,  my  child,  though  not  alone — 

My  heart  with  Freedom  you  must  ever  share. 
You  dream  of  turtle-doves  and  butterflies, 

While  I  can  only  hear  the  eagle's  scream ; 
Can  only  see  my  war-steed's  flashing  eyes ; 

O  God,  I  pray  thee,  let  my  darling  dream ! 

O  stars,  that  from  the  clouds  like  fortune  break  i 

O  night,  that  folds  us  in  thy  soft  embrace ! 
Let  not  the  sleeping  world  too  soon  awake, 

To  gaze  upon  my  grief-disfigured  face. 
Not  yet  can  baffled  Liberty  afford 

To  light  her  camp-fires  by  the  day's  broad 

beam, 
Lest  tyranny  again  should  whet  her  sword ; 

O  God  of  Slumber,  let  the  sleepers  dream ! 


184 


AND    OTHER    POEMS 


FROM  THE  BARRICADES 

(After  Heine) 

POETS,  sleep  and  dream  no  more, 
Wake  to  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
Strike  the  chords  of  lute  and  lyre 
Till  they  fill  the  soul  with  fire, 
Like  the  Marseillaise  of  yore. 

Pipe  no  more  in  accents  weak 

To  your  lady's  love  lit  eyes  ; 

A  la  bayonet,  the  word, 

On  the  ramparts  it  is  heard, 

Let  the  swords  and  daggers  speak  ! 

Suffer  not  your  lute  to  trill 

Softly  in  idyllic  sighs  ; 

Be  a  trumpet  in  its  call, 

Be  a  cannon  charged  with  ball 

Peal  and  thunder,  roar  and  kill. 

Peal  and  roar  as  days  go  by, 
Till  the  last  oppressor  dies  ; 
And  until  the  world  is  free, 
Let  your  song  from  henceforth  be 
One  exultant  battle  cry. 
185 


ffl 


THE    WOOING    OF    THE    ROSE 

CHILDE   HAROLD 

(From  the  German  of  Heine) 

NOW  black  and  stark,  a  stately  bark 
Bears  calmly  on  with  canvas  spread ; 

In  silence  all,  around  a  pall, 

The  watchers  watch  beside  the  dead. 

A  poet  dies,  and  calm  he  lies, 
His  face  uncovered  to  the  sight ; 

His  eyes  of  blue  cerulean  hue 
Fixed  on  the  far  celestial  light. 

From  out  the  deep,  tones  swell  and  sweep. 
Such  as  the  morbid  mermaids  make ; 

With  ceaseless  surge,  like  solemn  dirge, 
Against  the  bark  the  billows  break. 


186 


INDEX 

PAGE 

Allegory,  An   96 

Another  Fool 70 

Art    Eternal 50 

At  Last  at  Rest   101 

Au  Revoir    132 

Bereft 68 

Butterfly,  The 66 

California 9 

Con  Amore — Con  Dolore 61 

Dawn   on   Mount   Tamalpais 20 

De   Profundis    94 

Death  of  Al  Harith,  The 14-9 

Death-Watch,   The    67 

Derelict,  The 25 

Dom  Perignon    156 

Don    Juan    13 

Dreyfus     64 

Drifting    71 

El  Rio  Sacramento 57 

El  Salvador 34 

El   Vaquero    19 

England  at  Bay    113 

Face,  A    164 

Faith    119 

Florence   33 

Forecast 73 

Four  Score  Years  and  Ten 8 

Gloaming,    The    69 

Guido    31 

Har-Ma-Khu    76 

187 
ft, 


i 


INDEX 

PAGE 

Hulda  .............................  93 

Humming  Bird,  The   ..*...  ...........  42 

Hungry    Heart,    The  .  .  ...............  49 

Iceberg,  The  ........................  54 

In  Calm  and  Storm  ...........  .......  24 

In  Fields  Not  Far  Away  ..............  21 

In  The   Sierras  ......................  Ill 

In   the   Swim  ........................  127 

Jean    ..............................  38 

Lady  Jane   .........................  82 

Long  Tom    .........................  125 

Ma  Pauvre  Petite  ....................  77 

Mahatma's   Rede,   The  ................  103 

Marie    .............................  107 

Memograph,   A    .....................  87 

"Mene,   Mene,  Tekel  Upharsin"  ........  131 

Messiah,  The   .......................  100 

Monograph,  A  ......................  123 

Muse  of  Romance,  The  ...............  26 

My  Orient    .........................  48 

Neither   Do   I  Condemn  ...............  97 

O  Sly  Bo-Peep  ......................  37 

Off  Cape  St.  Lucas  ...................  43 

Oft-Told  Tale,  An  ...................  90 

On  the  Heights  ......................  88 

Padre  Kino    ........................  120 

Pax  Vobiscum    ......................  41 

"Peace  Be  With  You"  ................  65 

Point  Bonita    ...................  ....  22 

Poor   Little   Jo  ......................  72 

Red-Letter  Day,  A   ..................  134 

Reverie,  A    .........................  15 


Rose  and  the  Thorn,  The 
188 


INDEX 

PAGE 

San  Carlos   44 

Schamyl's  Defeat 109 

Shakespeare    75 

Summer  Days    102 

Sutter's  Fort    55 

Then  and  Now 86 

"Tins  to  Mend" 129 

To  an  Old  Copy  of  Shakespeare 39 

To  Raphael  Weill 133 

To  -Sir  Henry  Irving 60 

To  the  Unknown  God 46 

Types    11 

Unanswered  Questions 45 

Victoria    , 115 

Vignettes    29 

Waiting    28 

What  Matters  it  Where  or  When? 117 

When  Richard  Lovelace  Came  to  Woo.  .  35 

Who  Knows?   52 

Wooing  of  the  Rose,  The 7 

TRANSLATIONS 

Alone    Ig7 

Carmen 170 

Childe  Harold   188 

Dedans  Paris 181 

Flaminca    173 

From  the  Barricades 185 

King  Himself  Foremost  of  All,  The 171 

Let  Them   Dream 182 

March  of  the  Nomads,  The 178 

Remembrance    174 

Rosette 168 

189 


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